Bee-Movie
by ThePsiFiles
Summary: 2012M'verse. When Quartermain is woken by a precognitive nightmare that sends her into allergic shock, the Aegis team scramble to get to the crime scene in time. Who is the Lord of the Flies, the Master of the Swarm, and what are his plans for Anderson, Cornelius and the rising star of the Capital Zone, Judge Hershey? (See my profile for details of my fanon setting.)
1. Nightsting

**HEY! JANE H! Thanks for all the nice reviews – but sign in so I can write and thank you, willya? :) Send me a PM or something!**

**A/n :** Detailed author's notes for this story appear at the end of each chapter. General notes about my "Dredd" fanon setting (and links to inspiration pictures etc.) appear on my profile.

This story takes place in early September, shortly after "Shakedown the Dream".

This story can stand on its own without knowing much about my fanon – _Aegis_ is the mobile command center for the nascent Psi Division, with Anderson commanding and investigating psychic crimes all over Mega City One (and elsewhere). Some references might make more sense with you being familiar with the rest of my stories.

If you enjoyed this story (and even if you didn't) please review – even if it is just a "good fic / bad fic" review (although more detail is nice). Without reviews, I don't know if I am writing things people want to read, or what needs to be changed or have more of / less of for future stories.

I have a _very_ simple rule – if you leave a review for me, I _will_ leave a review for you. I don't care what sort of stories you write, or even if I am familiar with the fandom – I will leave a review.

**Bee-Movie**

**Prog 1 : Nightsting**

"You can't expect me to sign off on this."

Cornelius, dressed for breakfast on _Aegis_ in Street-fatigue pants and a justice-blue T-shirt, looked over his coffee cup at Anderson. "I'm afraid you're going to have to," he remarked dryly. "You were, technically, my commanding officer at the time. What do you want me to do?" he asked reasonably when her expression remained obdurate. "Pretend I transferred a day later and get Giant to sign it?" He shook his head. "That would be misrepresenting the facts, and misrepresenting the facts would be _unethical_, Judge Anderson."

"Unethical," Anderson repeated tonelessly. "Unethical. This," she waved the after-action report of his actions on the Big Tri highway and in the Cursed Earth, "is why I told you to fly; I was afraid this would happen."

"That," opined Cornelius, "is an awfully _specific_ fear. Are you certain only Jackie's a precog?"

Anderson narrowed her butcher-blue eyes, but her generous mouth was smiling despite herself. Drokk the man! He was dreadfully cute in the Judge-Tutor's T-shirt, the material stretched so tight the screen-printed yellow design actually flexed and cracked a little when he breathed. It was a nice view when you rolled out of bed in the morning. Not that she would ever let him know, nor order him to dress differently when off-duty. "You aren't helping," was all she said.

He raised a single eyebrow. "I wasn't aware I was _supposed_ to help before breakfast," he said. "Which reminds me – didn't Jackie promise huevos rancheros?"

"She did," agreed Anderson. "She's still asleep."

Cornelius sighed – despite his best efforts, Quartermain could be tardy enough to earn an induction's worth of demerits. "I was looking forward to it," he said. "I'll admit – it's not the first thing I'd have thought she'd cook." Anderson shook her head.

"No, no," she said, "you've got no idea. Near the Radhattan boundary, _all_ her people's pubs do Mex for breakfast. It's, like, a _thing_ with them." She shook her head. "No idea why, but it is. Crazy."

"'Her people'?" asked Cornelius. "She's not some exotic native girl, Cassie – she's from _Boston_, for Grud's sake." He got up from the table, rolling his neck and flexing powerful shoulders. "Well," he said, "I'm not waiting on her – shift begins in thirty. I'll scramble some ecks in the microwave – that and some toast good for you?" Anderson nodded as Cornelius got up from the table in the squad room and moved to the cramped galley station tucked into a bulkhead.

There was an unspoken agreement between Anderson and Cornelius to make life on _Aegis_ as structured as was humanly possible, because life off it – or, even, duty _on_ it – was doomed to be entirely unpredictable and quite unlike any other assignment in the Department. Floating high above Mega City One, the HULA's patrol area was the whole city – and perhaps beyond. Psi Division's remit was defined by _type_ of crime rather than geographic area and, while no genre of criminality respected Judges' sleep-cycles, at least other perps had multiple shifts to handle them.

Active-duty shift for Anderson, Cornelius and Quartermain started at oh-eight-hundred, continuing until eighteen-hundred, with formal sleep-cycle beginning at twenty-three-hundred. Betancourt and Brufen retained a more flexible cycle while _Aegis_ was fresh out of shakedown and still undergoing bluesky trials, but the commanders liked to have everyone assembled together for at least the evening meal – usually takeout – in the squad room (Anderson would invariably push for noodles – she seemed to know the best curry-joint in every sector of the city – but never pulled rank to get her way). Evenings were spent writing reports, going over the data from the day's trials, and – for Quartermain – studying the parts of being a Judge she couldn't learn on the job.

Anderson sat herself down at the table, brushing her still-damp hair behind her ears and scrolling through the daily-briefing on a datapad. Nothing leaped out at her as particularly requiring her team's attention – she'd let Cornelius decide; he usually chose with a view to Quartermain's training. "Any coffee left in the pot?" she asked.

Cornelius didn't quite drop the cup when the shriek came from Quartermain's bunk, but liquid sloshed on the counter and dripped to the lattice-work floor as he tossed it down. Anderson jumped up, reaching the dormitory alcove just as Cornelius tore the curtain to the side.

Quartermain was lying tangled in her sheets, her back arched and limbs flailing, the breath gasping in her throat. Anderson caught her wrists, trying to stop her struggling. Her green eyes were open, staring anguished at nothing. She gave another scream – a weak, choked thing. The hands in Anderson's grasp were going white at the fingertips, her lips blue. "She can't breathe," Anderson realized.

"_Brufen!_" yelled Cornelius, shouldering Anderson out of the way and slipping his arms under Quartermain's shoulders and knees. He lifted her as easily as a doll, lying her down on the table, her kicking feet knocking his coffee off. The Tek-Judge burst through the cockpit door. "Medikit, now!" Cornelius ordered.

Quartermain's thrashing was weaker, her breath a wheezing gasp. Her skin was pale but blotching to red. Her hands were swelling, the joints stiff and squishy. "What's _wrong_ with her?" Anderson asked frantically.

Brufen stepped forward, pressing a probe against her skin. "Hypotension, blood oxygen level is way down," he reported tightly. He massaged her throat. "Anaphylaxis," he diagnosed grimly.

"Do I need to find a medbay?" yelled Betancourt from the cockpit.

"Set a course," Brufen said grimly. The engines howled, their tone shifting, and everyone swayed as _Aegis_ accelerated. Brufen fumbled in the medikit, pulling a dispenser. "Hold her," he ordered Cornelius. Quartermain had no strength left – the mere weight of his arms immobilized her. Brufen stabbed her thigh, injecting the epinephrine, antihistamine and steroid cocktail. She gasped and drew a ragged, but functional, breath as Brufen capped the syringe. "Belay that heading change, Betancourt," he said, thankfully. _Aegis_, and everyone aboard, relaxed.

"Knew she shouldn't have had the shrimp last night," Anderson quipped, but her voice was trembling. "Jackie?" she asked, reaching out with a shaking hand.

Brufen shook his head. "Ingestion-caused anaphylaxis has a much faster onset time," he said.

"Something bit her?" asked Cornelius. Anderson swept her hands and eyes over Quartermain's body, searching for a sting, as Brufen shrugged and studied the readout on the probe.

"She has all the symptoms – including sudden-onset angiodema," he explained, "but no detectible cause; no known allergen." He reached for the datapad, tabbing it to connect to the _Aegis_ personnel medical files. "She's allergic to hymenoptera venom," he read. He glanced upward. "Bees and wasps," he glossed, a little sheepishly.

Brufen wasn't a medi-tek – or a biologist or chemist, for that matter. He was an exceptionally-gifted aeronautical engineer with a specialization in transonic aerodynamics, and more-than-accomplished when it came to related disciplines such as materials science, programming and electronics. But he had enough general scientific knowledge – not to mention a rating in field- and triage-station first-aid – to function as a medic, as well as talk over-the-heads of the rest of the team. Most of the time, the later was accidental.

"Nothing I can see," said Anderson. Quartermain had previously had a habit of sleeping in the buff – something Cornelius had put a sharp stop to the morning after the Dream Cruise when she'd flopped half-asleep and fully-naked out of bed, pulling the curtain to her dormitory alcove down around her voluptuous nudity with an embarrassed shriek when she found her superior officers drinking coffee at the table. Now, she wore a baggy, over-sized T-shirt – Anderson noted with a smile it was one of Cornelius' cast-offs; faded purple-blue with the logo of a blunt-beaked bird and golden 'B' chipped and scuffed. It fit her like a nightdress – the hem almost to her knees, the sleeves reaching her elbows. Anderson swept the curves of her shapely limbs once more, running her hands under the material to check her hourglass torso. "No, nothing," she confirmed.

Cornelius had brought the blanket from Quartermain's bunk and, as Anderson helped her to sit up and perch on the edge of the table, wrapped it around her shoulders. "You okay, Jackie?" he asked. She gulped and nodded, still not trusting her voice. Her eyes were squinting, the lids puffed halfway closed. "You gave us quite the scare."

"Wasps . . ." she croaked. She was looking at something none of them could see, starting past Anderson's shoulder. "A swarm of them . . . buzzing, biting . . . everywhere. Chasing a man . . . they'll sting him to death." She gasped and choked, clutching at her throat. Brufen reached for another dispenser, but she recovered with an effort.

"Precognition," Anderson realized. "She wasn't _really_ stung, but her body doesn't know that – it reacts like it was."

Brufen nodded, understanding – Anderson could psynse and Cornelius could see the gears turning in his mind as he contemplated how that might work. "Fascinating . . ." he muttered. "I mean, the physiological impact of the precognitive dream is fascinating," he quickly explained. "The future event is interesting – that is, tragic, of course. But . . . an insect infestation?" He glanced at Anderson and Cornelius. "That sounds like a job for animal control, not us. Unless that a metaphor, of course," he added with a glance at Quartermain.

She eyed him with withering disdain. "Precogs don't _do_ metaphors, Brufen," she said archly.

"Regardless of that," said Cornelius sharply, with a glare warning the Cadet to show more respect that she acknowledged with a deferential dip of the head, "I'm inclined to agree. I trust your prediction implicitly, Jackie," he assured her, "but it doesn't sound like a job for Psi-Division. We knew there were going to be things like this – warnings we'd pass to other departments rather than . . ."

"No," Anderson said abruptly. She shook her head, her shoulders shivering. "This is ours. We take it."

"Why?" Brufen blurted.

"Because she's in command, Brufen," Cornelius reminded him firmly.

The Tek colored and stiffened. "I understand that, _XO_," he said icily. "My question was inquiry, not insubordination – what motivates the decision?"

"Gut," said Anderson shortly.

"With respect," said Brufen, "that isn't a way to apportion assignments."

"It is for Psi-Division," Cornelius said reasonably. Brufen looked at him as if wanting support. Cornelius spread his hands. "We're just along for the ride, man," he reminded him. "Psis call the shots. Let's get time and location, advise animal control en route. Report, Cadet," he ordered.

Quartermain nodded, her upper body stiffening into attention even as her bare legs swung back and forth, her toes wiggling nervously. "Caucasian male, five-nine, one-eighty, brown and blue, late thirties early forties. Well-dressed, pin-stripe kneepads, briefcase, cup of sythi-caf, screamsheet," she said crisply; whatever other skills she might have, her reporting was second-to-none. "Using the slidewalk. Swarm of wasps attacks him – just him, no-one else. Everyone's screaming, panicking – but he's the only one getting stung. He runs, the swarm follows him down an alley. It's too much – he collapses, dead. And then . . ." She swallowed, her voice starting to choke again. "And then they attack me – stinging me. I can feel . . ." She reached for her neck, gasping and gulping. Brufen stepped forward again, but she shook her head. "I'm good," she croaked. She swallowed once again, drawing herself together, visibly reminding herself it wasn't _real_. "That's all I've got, Sir," she told Cornelius. He nodded.

"They attacked _you_?" he asked. "But you weren't there." He turned to Anderson "Unless she was doing some astral projection spug . . ."

"Hey," exclaimed Anderson, "less of that; astral projection is a _perfectly_ valid technique." Cornelius ignored her and continued.

". . . then that ain't normal," he finished. "Is it?" he asked.

Anderson flung up her hands. "In case you hadn't noticed," she said, "there's not a lot _normal_ about psis. But you're right – there's something else. It could be another future event conflated with this one, psionic interference, her subconscious trying to interpret some detail . . ." She shrugged. "Could be almost anything – but I don't have a warm fuzzy."

"Which is more than enough reason for us to take it," said Cornelius. "You got a location?" he asked Quartermain. She shook her head.

"Not exactly, Sir," she said. "It doesn't work like that – unless I see something I or someone else recognizes . . ." Her voice trailed off. "Get me a pen and a bit of paper, can you, Sir?" she asked.

Cornelius turned, but Brufen had already gone to her locker and come back with a spiral-bound notebook. Closing her eyes to gather her memories she flipped through the pages; most of them were filled with well-organized notes in her loopy handwriting, but there were more than a few doodles, sketches and even fully-rendered drawings carefully planned, finalized and colored with bold marker strokes. Cornelius caught glimpses of them as they flipped by – they were cartoony caricatures with oversized eyes, small mouths and exaggerated figures in the style of the KT-pop artwork she had pinned to the inside of her locker. He reached down and stopped her at a particular full-page illustration.

It was the same style as the others, but executed with more care and a better eye to composition. It showed five anthropomorphic cats complete with tails and whiskers. Four wore stylized judicial-fatigues, the other – a golden-winged homo-feline with a grin that would put the Cheshire Cat to shame – a red flightsuit. The biggest of the cats – a muscular tom in black-and-bronze with hands the size of his head – loomed gigantically over and behind the others, his disproportionate torso framing the picture and a gleaming widowmaker resting on one shoulder. In front of him, barely coming up to his chest, a golden cat-queen in skintight sentencing-black fired her lawgiver at something off the page, front-paw at her temple, a look of concentration on her beautiful face and shimmering lines of force radiating from her head. A tall, thin, gray tom in justice-blue was weighed down with tools, his hands busy with nuts and bolts. His expression was serious, glowering at the diminutive crimson kitty-princess wearing cadet-blue tucked, playful and protected, in the crook of the big tom's elbow.

"_Really_, Cadet?" asked Cornelius through gritted teeth.

Quartermain blushed and looked abashed, but didn't say a word. Brufen cocked his head and peered at the picture. "Excellent technique, Cadet," he said seriously, "but your anatomy needs work."

"Yeah," said Anderson dryly. She tapped her doppleganger's chest with a fingernail. "Thanks for the upgrade, Jackie, but your breasts are bigger than mine." Quartermain's blush deepened.

"Actually, Judge Anderson," Brufen said brightly, "that's the style. As the adult female your, erm, that is . . ." He started to blush himself. "Your _feminine attributes_," he settled on, "are shown larger than the juvenile's regardless of actual size. The dominant male's physique is also highly exaggerated – but I think, Cadet," he said, "the proportions of his hands are wrong."

Quartermain tried to hide her surprise – _of course _if anyone could discourse intelligently on SoAz anime, it would be Brufen. "I was inspired by the hands of Michelangelo's _David_, Sir," she explained quietly. "As the instruments of justice and . . ."

"Uh-hum!" coughed Cornelius. He tapped his finger on the waist of the golden female – the big tom's tail was curled around it, pulling her towards him. Quartermain screwed up her face and winced. Without a word, Cornelius tore the picture out of her notebook and gestured meaningfully at the blank page beneath.

She set her shoulders and breathed in, centering herself. Her hand moved over the paper almost of its own volition. It took her barely a minute, the strokes of the pen assured and confident. She finished and handed the notebook to Cornelius. "The best I can do, Sir," she said sheepishly. Anderson stood on tip-toes to peer over his shoulder.

"Is that enough for Control to match, Brufen?" she asked. The drawing was a good sketch of an alley, with a bloated and stung corpse lying on the ground surrounded by the haze of the swarm. Quartermain's drawing showed a few key features – an awning, a particular style of streetlight – and she'd made notes here and there as to color or sounds and smells, but it still could have been any one of thousands of places in Mega City One. Brufen started to answer, not looking particularly confident, but Cornelius interrupted him.

"That's sector two, CapZone," he said. "Three-blocks south of the Sector House."

Anderson nodded slowly; it wasn't that she didn't trust her XO, but . . . "You recognize it because . . . ?" she asked.

Cornelius' face was unreadable. "Daz seconded me to Hershey's team to handle a block war. Knelt there for ten minutes holding a wound closed," he said shortly. "Some perp gutted a Rookie with a butcher knife. Medi-Teks didn't get there in time. Bled out in my arms."

Anderson felt his delicate grief, not pushing beyond his words to learn what had happened to the perp – something told her he'd bled out too, faster and more mercifully than the Rookie. "I'm sorry, John," she began – she wanted to tell him it was never easy to lose someone, that she knew – but he interrupted her.

"Took his oath before the end," he said tightly. "He died a Judge. Nick!" he snapped, turning away before anyone could say anything. "Sector two, corner of Five and Ryan. You got a time?" he asked Quartermain as the tone of the engines changed and the light from the portholes swung across the floor as _Aegis_ lifted and turned. The Cadet shrugged.

"I don't know, Sir," she said apologetically. "The sun was up, but at street level it was hard to see how high. Not long, though," she added. "I mean, I know that much – today, definitely. This morning. Like . . . now?" she suggested.

Cornelius nodded. He opened his locker and grabbed his jacket. "Brufen, you're with us, " he ordered. The Tek saluted smartly and started to gather his gear. Quartermain hopped off the table and coughed to attract Cornelius' attention. "Yes, Cadet?" he asked, fastening his armor web.

"Am I coming, Sir?" she asked. Her face and hands were puffy, her limbs pale beneath the blotching. She swayed a little, doing her very best to stop her limbs from trembling. "Please, Sir?" she asked.

Cornelius considered briefly, then nodded. "Plate up." He glanced at the drawing in his hand and shook his head before stuffing it inside his locker. "But you're heavier than you're drawn," he added with a wry grin. "I ain't carrying you."

**A/n :** Quartermain's cartoon doodles are imagined to be "anime" in style; her KT-pop is Japanese / Korean in style – it comes from the "South Asia" region which I have used as an expy for Korea &amp; Vietnam (with the South Asian Conflict being an expy for the Korean / Vietnam wars).

Please review, and check out other stories if you are interested in such things. Any feedback on that or other stories gratefully received – the review box is right there!


	2. Hershey

**HEY! JANE H! Thanks for all the nice reviews – but sign in so I can write and thank you, willya? :) Send me a PM or something!**

**Prog 2 : Hershey**

With the high buildings to either side, little sunlight reached street level in the alley. Glowglobes were burned out, shattered or filthy. The headlights of the lawmaster illuminated an all-too-common tableau; a corpse lying on the ground attended too-late. The Judge eased her bike to a stop and dismounted. "What you got?" she asked.

The medi-tek barely glanced up. "Stung to death," he said shortly. "Some kind of wasp." He handed up an evidence bottle – it contained a narrow-waisted insect banded like the warning tape stretched across the mouth of the alley. It was as long as the Judge's thumb with a handsbreadth wingspan. She stared silently at the barbed, bloodstained stinger protruding from its tail and the over-sized interlocking mandibles beneath the faceted eyes. "Plenty of 'em lying around."

"All dead?" the Judge asked warily. The medi-tek chuckled.

"Yeah, I think so," he said, "but don't worry – I don't think they're fatal unless you're allergic."

The Judge nudged the tarp covering the corpse with her boot. "That what killed him?" she asked. The medi-tek shook his head and drew back the sheet. "Grud!" exclaimed the Judge, her hand flying to her mouth despite herself.

The victim was crimson and bloated, his flesh studded with pus-oozing welts. Here and there, the pressure of the swelling had grown too much and the skin had split, revealing jellied, liquified rivers of off-color blood. He was all-but unrecognizable as human – his face distorted into a shining, over-inflated balloon, blood leaking from every orifice.

"Can't even confirm his ID," said the medi-tek apologetically. He handed up an evidence bag containing the contents of his wallet. "Hands are too-swollen to take prints, and looking at his face is obviously no good."

"DNA?" asked the Judge. Her voice sounded very far away to her ears.

"Wouldn't like to promise anything," the medi-tek said. "The enzymes in the venom break soft tissue down. He's been stung so many times, so much poison in his bloodstream . . ." He stood. "I've got to get him in a body-bag before the liquefaction goes too far – I don't want to mop him off the floor."

The Judge looked blankly at the corpse for a few seconds. As she did, the overstretched skin on his cheek tore open and the bloody remains of his eye spilled out like uncooked ecks. Even inured as she was to violence and death, she turned away. "Just how many wasps attacked him?" she asked.

The medi-tek shrugged as he shook out the black plastic bag. "Hundreds?" he suggested. "Thousands? I'm no expert, but he's covered in stings."

"Any other victims?" she asked. The medic shook his head. "So, a swarm of wasps attacks him, stings him to death, doesn't touch anyone else . . . and then what? Flies away?" The medi-tek's attention was on his 'patient', but he spared the instant it took to blankly shrug. "We need animal control," the Judge decided.

"They say they're en route," the medi-tek told her. "They were advised before I called them."

The Judge looked at him askance. "Control called 'em for the 911?" she asked.

The medi-tek shrugged again. "No idea," he admitted. He pointed with his chin towards the end of the alley. "But you've got company – someone's talking to your witnesses."

The Judge's hand fell automatically to her lawgiver as she turned. Her bike's headlights were pointed in her face and she could not see clearly. The rubbernecking crowd behind the wasp-stripped warning tape was silhouetted against the morning light spilling into the alley from the street. There were a few obviously Judicial outlines – bulky in the armor, the stance unmistakable. She walked down the alley as the tallest of them lifted the barrier to let a smaller, clearly female, Judge duck underneath. "Hershey, sector two," the Judge said by way of introduction. The tall Judge reached up and took off his helmet, revealing a strikingly handsome face she recognized.

"Good to see you, Hershey," said Cornelius. He turned to the helmetless blonde woman by his side. "Cassie, this is Judge Hershey. Hershey, this is . . ."

Hershey had removed her own helmet. "We've met, Cornelius," she said shortly. She lifted her chin in brief greeting. "Anderson."

The psi grinned. "Not so bad, Babs – yourself?" Hershey hadn't exactly been smiling, but if she had it would have come off her face like she'd been slapped. She stiffened, affronted by the psi's informality, her face expressionless.

While not unattractive, Hershey was an imposing and even intimidating woman. She was taller than Anderson, long and lean even down to her midnight-black, daystick-straight hair and nose like a lawrod barrel. At a glance, she gave the impression of being predominately vertical – the upright stance, the almost-boyish figure, and the flat, even lank, locks of hair – but that was leavened by some striking horizontal elements. Her lips were very thin, her mouth very wide. She wore the bangs of her hair low over pencil-stroke eyebrows, both looking as if they were measured with a laser level. "What's PsiDiv's interest in my case?" she asked.

"Dunno yet," said Anderson shortly. "Hunch, I guess."

"What have you got?" asked Cornelius. Hershey, who'd been staring at Anderson, annoyed, turned to him.

"Drokked if I know," she said, "I just got here. Medi-tek says my slab was stung by wasps – he ain't pretty. Can't confirm, but his ID says he's . . . Hector Patton," she read from the cards in the evidence bag. "Thirty eight, employed by Greenfields Credit Union on Seven and Ryan." Cornelius noticed the bottle in her hand and reached out to take it.

"That one of the wasps?" he asked. He lifted the bottle to get a closer look. "Mean-looking thing," he remarked. "We called animal control – they'll be here soon enough."

Hershey looked at Cornelius and then Anderson. "What's PsiDiv doing here?" she repeated. "Is there something I don't know about this case?"

Cornelius laughed. "Plenty," he said, "but we don't know either. Jackie!" He called and beckoned. A teenaged Cadet detached herself from the crowd and approached. Even with half her face hidden by the helmet, Hershey noticed she was both beautiful and sickly-pale. She looked lightheaded as she started to duck under the tape, standing to regain her balance, her body wavering carefully. Hershey watched without comment as Cornelius reached out and lifted her easily over, setting her down on the other side. She snapped to attention and only broke it when he ordered, "Report."

"Interviews are ongoing, Sir," she said crisply, "but it's much like I saw – swarm attacked him on the slidewalk, he fled down here but it followed him. No-one else was attacked – leastways, no-one says they got stung. Witnesses didn't want to get too close – but a couple of them report seeing a figure bending over the victim."

"Robbery?" asked Cornelius. She shrugged.

"Dunno, Sir," she said. "The swarm was pretty thick, apparently – no-one could see clearly. But he was in the middle of it, and didn't seem to care." She peered into the depths of the alley, past Hershey's lawmaster. "That him?" she asked. Cornelius nodded. "I'm sorry, Sir," she said. Her sensual mouth turned down at the corners. "I was too late."

"Don't beat yourself up, Jackie," said Cornelius. "If it weren't for you we wouldn't be here at all." The Cadet didn't look convinced – she remained staring at the bagged corpse lying on the asphalt. "Hershey," said Cornelius, "Cadet Quartermain of Psi-Division. Jackie, Judge Hershey."

Hershey politely lifted her chin at Quartermain. "Cadet," she acknowledged curtly.

The young psi wasn't really listening, her attention focused either on the dreadful sight before her or some future only she could see – perhaps both. "Chief Judge," she muttered automatically.

In the dark, it was hard to tell if Hershey was gawping or glaring. Cornelius glanced at Anderson, thinking _Let me handle this_ at her. He felt the weight of agreement dent the surface of his mind and Anderson led the younger woman down the alley.

"Your girl making a joke?" Hershey asked Cornelius tersely. He shrugged.

"She's a precog," he explained. "She sees things before they happen. And she's had a bad night," he added. "Cut her some slack."

"Precog." Hershey said the word like a slur. "So, what? She thinks I'm gonna be Chief Judge one day?" Her eager ambition was well-controlled, but clearly visible even to a man who avoided politics. "How accurate is that?"

"She's the reason I'm at your crime scene two minutes after you," he offered. "And I had to come halfway across the city and find a place to park a balloon. That's pretty good for a girl who was asleep when she called it."

Hershey stared for long seconds into the darkness of the alley, focusing on the dim shapes of Anderson and Quartermain without seeing them. She gave a shudder. "I'll be honest, Cornelius . . ." she began.

He shook his head. "Don't," he warned. "They're both my friends. You want her prediction to come true? Don't make enemies where you don't need 'em," he advised.

She squared up to him. "_You_ can read my mind now?" she asked with a sneer. He chuckled and shook his head.

"You know I'm no politician, Hershey," he admitted. "But even I can help you climb that greasy pole – or knock you down a peg or two. It ain't a threat," he assured her. "It's just an observation."

Hershey glanced around as if to make sure they weren't overheard. "Who says I want it?" she hissed.

Cornelius shrugged. "No-one," he said easily. "But Jackie says you're gonna _get_ it, and that's all that matters to me. I've never cared about what people want – I care about what happens." Hershey snorted in derision.

"Yeah, right," she mocked. "Next you'll be telling me you didn't _want_ level seven clearance less-than six-months out of the Academy – it just kind of _happened_."

The credit-chip dropped for Cornelius; so _that's_ what this was. "You really want to do this?" he asked. "Here?" Hershey folded her arms and remained obdurate. "Alright then," he said, "let's get down to the bronze. You're ambitious – but it's the _good_ kind of ambition; what keeps Dredd on the streets'll get you off 'em. But now's not the time to worry about jurisdiction; Jackie picked up on this _before it happened_, something told Cassie we should investigate. This isn't some wacky case you can write off as a single line in the report and just one more open investigation that goes nowhere – this is more than that, and you know it."

"So that's the deal, DepDivChief?" she asked scornfully. "Fine – take the damn case." She tabbed buttons on her lawscreen. Cornelius caught her wrist in one massive hand before she could bang her forearm against his.

"What's your clearance right now, what's your rank?" he asked.

"Deputy shift-chief, level four," Hershey said tightly.

"So I _could_ take the case, without consulting your SectComm," he agreed. "I'm not going to – PsiDiv isn't here to throw our weight around or steal your collar; we're here to _help_. You got here first – your case, your lead." He let go of her arm. "Okay?" he asked.

Slowly, she nodded, grateful for his kindness yet embarrassed by it. "Yeah," she said. "Thanks."

At that moment, a J-Dept van pushed through the crowd and eased to a stop. The door opened and a cit-auxiliary hopped out, jumping energetically over the tape rather than ducking under it. "Harmon, animal control," he said pleasantly. "Got here quick as I could – who's in charge?"

Cornelius pointed at Hershey, but she spoke quickly. "Joint lead, Officer Harmon – Psi and Street. I'm Hershey and this is Cornelius. Thanks for coming."

Harmon grinned. "No worries," he said. "Report said a victim killed by wasps?" Hershey nodded. "Any idea what kind?" Harmon was fresh-faced and boyish, looking barely old-enough to drive and with a mop of straw-colored hair. He wore the uniform of animal control – a green jumpsuit with paw-prints on the epaulettes – complete with shoulder-length gauntlets. The gloves were thick leather, quilted and padded with foam and banded with plasteen to protect against bites and scratches. Cornelius handed the evidence bottle to him. "'Crete-wasp," he said shortly. "Sting hurts like hitting your thumb with a hammer, but one shouldn't kill a human."

"What about a few hundred?" asked Hershey. Harmon's hazel eyes widened in surprise.

"Yeah, that'd do it," he admitted. He shook his head. "Grud, what a way to go," he said with feeling.

"You get a lot of 'em in the city?" asked Cornelius. Harmon shrugged.

"They're fairly common," he admitted, "but you don't see many this time of year – most colonies hibernate, they only stay active if the nest's in a warm location. A furnace room, near a generator, something like that." He shook the bottle, agitating the wasp's corpse. "The cold probably killed this one – if something destroys the nest, the colony will swarm. If they don't build a new nest quickly, they start dropping like flies." He grinned and laughed a little at his own joke.

"You think that's what happened?" Hershey asked. "They swarmed and attacked this guy?"

Harmon shook his head. "They swarm to defend the nest, that's it. They don't attack, they're not predatory. They eat a _fungus_; they build little farms inside their nests to grow it on garbage they haul in. They'll attack if threatened, but – like I said – the sting's painful as Hell. _One_'s enough to make a klegg run away."

"Eyewitnesses say the swarm chased him," said Cornelius. "Followed him down the alley, didn't bother anyone else." Harmon actually gaped. "Hey, I'm not telling you it makes sense," Cornelius said sympathetically.

"But you are telling me to make sense of it, huh?" Harmon asked with a wry grin. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Let me see the body."

The two Judges led him down the alley. Anderson and Quartermain were standing with the medi-tek over the bagged corpse, Brufen walking down the alley from the other direction. "I canvased around the block," he explained. "Couple of witnesses say someone ducked into the alley from this side around the time our victim died. He left a minute or so later – surrounded by the insects."

"Where'd he go?" asked Hershey. Brufen glanced at her askance but only answered when Cornelius nodded.

"No-one could tell me," he said. "They didn't want to get too close – a swarm of wasps can be quite frightening."

"These ones certainly are," Anderson remarked dryly. "You're animal control?" Harmon nodded and quick introductions were made. "What do you make of it?"

Harmon gave the careful shrug of an expert unwilling to commit. He crouched by the bag and unzipped it. "Grud have mercy," he muttered. "That's completely atypical 'crete-wasp behavior," was all he would admit.

"'Crete-wasps?" asked Brufen. "The ones that produce silicatase?" Harmon nodded and handed the bottle up to him. "Their saliva softens rockcrete enough for them to chew it up," he explained to the other Judges. "They build nests out of it – an array of hexagonal chambers. Mathematically perfect, incredibly precise tolerance, all by instinct. Amazing."

"Wait," said Cornelius. "These bastards will eat through a drokking _wall_?"

Harmon chuckled. "Well, them and a few dozen of their mates, Judge," he explained. "Colonies normally number a couple of hundred. An individual wasp can process about a cubic inch of rockcrete a day. Normally, as Judge Brufen said, they build nests anchored near a source of garbage and 'crete; underpasses are popular – the homeless population gets stung a lot in the spring when they wake up and start swarming."

"The wasps or the vagrants?" asked Anderson with a smirk. Harmon laughed again and acknowledged her joke with a wink and pointed finger.

"But they'll also burrow into a wall and build their nests inside a void," he said. "Bad infestations can impact the stability of a structure – that's what I see most. We get called out to destroy a nest."

"So you can kill these things?" asked Hershey.

"Oh, sure – chem sprays'll do it," said Harmon. He jerked his thumb towards the end of the alley. "I've got some in the truck, but you can buy 'em at any hardware store. They're more a nuisance than a serious threat – they're not dangerous."

"Tell that to Hector," muttered Anderson with feeling.

Harmon made a frustrated noise; Anderson could taste his worry like mustard on a slopdog – he was afraid the Department was one stung Judge away from bathing the city in insecticide. "They don't normally behave like that, Judge!" he exclaimed. "There has to be some explanation – some pathogen or parasite, hormonal imbalances. Magnetic fields might have driven their nervous systems haywire!" He was reaching, and everyone knew it.

"And we need to know that before more citizens turn up dead," said Hershey. Harmon nodded glumly; he didn't look very confident about providing an answer.

"What are these lesions?" Brufen was crouching by the corpse, pointing at a series of long, parallel slashes on its forearm. The medi-tek barely glanced at them.

"Venom causes swelling, fluid build-up," he said shortly. "Enzymes weaken the cellular structure – when the pressure gets too much, the flesh tears." He gestured vaguely at the body. "You can see it all over him."

Brufen shook his head. "No, these are different – look. The edges aren't ragged, they're straight. The muscle fibers were cut, not torn. They go to the bone – do you have retractors?" The medi-tek held the edges of the wound open while Brufen peered inside. He pulled a probe from his belt and pointed. "Do you see?" he asked.

The others looked. They couldn't make much sense of what they were seeing; long strands of reddish muscle and white cords that could have been nerves or tendons. Here and there blood pooled. The bone was pinkish-white, and Brufen was pointing to a small metallic plate clamped to it. "What am I looking at?" asked Cornelius.

"Biophilic osteo-mount for an RFID chip," said the medi-tek. "It's a fairly common enhancement."

"Yeah," said Quartermain, "I had mine installed last year. What's his chip for?"

"He's a banker, Cadet," said Hershey. "Usually, theirs are keychips – access to the vault or computer terminals."

"The chip's _missing_," said Brufen. "I think we have motive."

"And a place to be," said Cornelius. "Harmon, you run whatever tests you need to on the body before it goes to resyk. Brufen, you have the scene. The rest of us . . ." He glanced at Hershey. She nodded.

"Seven and Ryan," she said crisply. "Greenfields Credit Union. Doubletime it, people."

**A/n :** Hershey is a comics character – she's mentioned in on-screen text in the movie. I've mentioned here before (in "Highway Don't Care" and "Gunpowder &amp; Lead") and she has / will have a major role in my "Return of Rico" story. She's an ally of Dredd's and does, in the comics, rise to be Chief Judge. Quartermain seems to know something here, too!

It's a fairly slow build, but I am trying to word-build here too. Tell me what you think – review box is right there! I always reply to reviews and return the favor!


	3. The Lord of the Flies

**HEY! JANE H! Thanks for all the nice reviews – but sign in so I can write and thank you, willya? :) Send me a PM or something!**

**Prog 3 : The Lord of the Flies**

The junction of Seven and Ryan was a pleasant pedestrian plaza in the center of CapZone's banking district. There were benches by the side of carefully-tended patches of grass, carts selling synthi-caf, pastries or other snacks, and even a fountain in the center. Here in the metaphorical if not literal shadow of the Hall of Justice, it seemed very far from the crime-riddled gangland of the rest of the city.

That impression was shattered by the roar of an engine and the screams of scattering citizens as a yellow and black van howled down the street towards the credit union, smashing carts and people aside. With a squeal of tires and brakes it painted thick scars of black rubber on the pavement, juddering to a stop broadside the building about a score of yards away.

A perp with his face daubed in bumblebee-stripes kicked open the passenger door and put one foot on the pavement, bracing to fire the shoulder-mounted RPG at the armorglass doors. The shell detonated – smashing the glass, destroying the frame, bending the tracks and jamming the defensive shutters open before the robotic brain could even think about closing them. Clouds of smoke and rock dust billowed as the van's side door slid open and half-a-dozen men with assault rifles charged out, firing indiscriminately as they ran into the credit union.

Automated systems connected to J-Dept computers had activated the instant the grenade detonated, bypassing Control's operators and sending an alert to all Judges in the sector – _crime in progress_. Even in CapZone, however, any response would probably come too late if it came at all.

The wheel-man was looking to his right, past the perp with the rocket launcher, at the carnage and chaos they'd caused. He gasped as his buddy jerked and spasmed, blood bursting from multiple impacts. He turned and looked through the windshield in the direction the shots had come – a squad of Judges was running towards him, lawgivers blazing. He swore and stomped on the accelerator, driving straight at them. They split and dived to either side, one of them rolling back to a crouch and firing through the door.

Hershey saw the driver's lips contort in a silent scream, hands flying off the wheel and his face flung to the ceiling. She stood as the van careened out of control, smashing into the fountain in the center of the plaza. Steam rose from the shattered radiator, glass tinkling on the ground. "Take inside!" she yelled, running towards the van. "I've got here!" She grabbed the side door nearest and wrenched it open; the empty interior mocked her over the lawgiver's iron sights. She opened the driver's door – he was pale from blood loss, battered and bruised from the punch of the airbag in his face, barely conscious. She put her gun to his temple, reaching over to unfasten his seatbelt so she could drag him out of the cab.

Cornelius, Anderson and Quartermain sprinted into the bank. An oversized horseshoe desk divided the foyer – a pretty-boy receptionist was sprawled dead atop it, his body riddled with bullets, an ashen-faced girl pounding on him with her fists, yelling at him to _wake up, drokk it!_ Cornelius went left, Anderson and Quartermain right. He fired without warning, dropping a ganger with a fast triple-tap in the chest. His buddy turned, his finger jammed on the trigger, firing a futile arc of bullets. His weapon ran dry before it pointed at Cornelius – the Judge dispassionately shot him twice and stepped over his corpse.

Quartermain fired on the run, her aim spoiled, only winging her targets. They turned and blasted, chips of faux-marble pinging off her armor as bullets tore up the tiles. She dived into the cover of a potted plant, slipping on the bloodstained floor. This early in the morning, the bank had been busy with citizens sorting their finances before work started and shop-owners depositing yesterday's takings. The perps had fired wildly, not caring where their bullets went. The foyer was filled with wounded citizens, screaming and howling. The Judges could not fire without hitting innocents – the perps showed no such restraint.

Anderson dived over the counter, landing prone inside the horseshoe. Bullets chased her heels, chewing up the surface of the desk and hitting the receptionist in the back. She screamed and flung up her hands, thrown forward to lie over her colleague. "Armor piercing," Anderson ordered grimly, and shot through the outer wall of the desk.

The perps cried out in pain as her bullets – aimed by psynses rather than sight – hit them in the legs and ankles, sending them crashing to the floor. Quartermain leaped up from cover, running forward, firing as she moved.

Cornelius ran to the manager's office – it was a triangle in the corner of the bank, cut off from the main foyer by an armorglass wall and sliding door. The manager was still seated, his hands in the air, gaping terrified at the rifle pointed at him. "I can't open the vault!" he wailed. "The alarm's tripped! The door's sealed!"

"I don't need to to open the vault, spuggly!" the perp hissed. "I just need you to die!"

"Drop it!" snapped Cornelius. The perp spun, but Cornelius was ready; he fired once, hitting the ganger in the head and sending him flying backwards. "Clear!" he called.

Quartermain had left one perp alive; she kicked his gun clear and knelt on his back, her lawgiver behind his ear. "Clear!" she called, cuffing him one-handed.

_"Clear out here,_" came Hershey's voice in their earbeads.

Anderson stood, her gaze and psynses sweeping the bank. "All clear," she called. She lifted her wrist. "Control, this is Anderson – meat-med-catch to my GPS. Slabs and grabs, multiple citizens injured." She vaulted over the desk. "Everyone stay calm!" she called, "Medi-teks are inbound. You okay?" she asked Quartermain. The younger woman nodded.

"I don't recognize the colors, Ma'am," she said. "Yellow and black stripes – makes some kind of sense, but . . ." She pulled back a sleeve. "Fleur-de-lys tattoo in black and gold – that's Los Santos, right?" Anderson nodded. "That one's got a Calitri monogram." She hauled her grab upright – he yelped as his wounds pained him, revealing filed teeth with canine fang implants. Quartermain grabbed him by the hair, holding his head in place as she scrubbed at his face. The bumblebee colors came away, revealing a dramatic facial tattoo of brindled orange and black. "And this guy's a Bengal – or was." She let the perp slump to the ground. "I don't get it, Ma'am – what's the connection? Gangbangers don't shift allegiance easily."

"They do when their gang gets busted," Anderson explained. "Right, tyger-tyger?" she asked, nudging him with her boot. He grunted and turned away. "Bengals got poached about a month back, Los Santos maybe a year and a half ago. And John's old boss and I hit Calitri last week."

"So our perp's recruiting orphaned gangers?" mused Quartermain. "Slapping 'em in wasp facepaint and making amateur plays? Sure, if we hadn't been here they could have got away – but the moment that RPG went off the vault locked down. The RFID keychip's useless – door won't open without J-Dept auth."

Anderson nodded. "Hostages?" she prompted, more to see if Quartermain would notice the flaw rather than seriously suggesting. The Cadet didn't disappoint.

"Didn't look too interested in taking them, Ma'am," she said dryly, gesturing at the dead and wounded. "And J-Dept doesn't negotiate with perps – gangs know that. We'd go in hard – right through the hole they blew in the doors. This whole thing's amateur hour. Even if our perp with the paintbrush didn't know how it'd go down, these guys are color-cut; they were made men. They should have told him."

"So what do you make of it, Cadet?" Cornelius had approached with the manager in tow, the man queasy-faced as he picked his way delicately through the wreckage, trying to avoid getting blood on his spats. Quartermain stood and snapped to attention.

"Sir," she said crisply. "Either the perps are idiots . . ."

"Never safe to assume that, Cadet," Cornelius reminded her.

"Yes, Sir," she agreed. "Or there's something else . . ." Her voice trailed off and she looked towards the rear of the bank. "That vault's gonna open," she warned. "Soon."

The manager's smile was oily. "It can't, young lady," he assured her. "You see, as I tried to tell the . . . _forceful_ _gentleman_ prior to his . . . erm, _sudden demise_ – the vault sealed the moment the alarm tripped." He turned to face Cornelius. "I must say, Judge," he added with admiration, "I am pleasantly surprised by your response time." Cornelius pointed at Quartermain.

"Thank her, not me," he said shortly, "and call her _Judge_ or _Ma'am._"

Quartermain would have blushed with happy pride, but her eyes were glazed with the faraway look of precognition. "Hershey!" she yelled into her communicator. "Behind you!"

Outside, Hershey snorted dismissively at the eager Cadet's excited voice in her earbead. "We're on the clock, kid," she muttered, kneeling by her grab and going through his pockets – like those inside, he was painted yellow-and-black over more permanent gang markings. "Leave the jokes back at the Academy . . ." She felt the pavement vibrate through her knee, turning to look over her shoulder. "Drokk!" she swore, leaping up and diving to the side almost in time.

The 'dozer blade of the bright yellow digger crashed into the van, crumpling the bodywork and shoving it out of the way. The unfortunate perp was crushed to red paste beneath the caterpillar tracks' cleats. Hershey cried out in pain, her arm pinned between the two vehicles, bones breaking with a wet snap and a sudden spike of agony. She tumbled clear, her hand flopping uselessly on the suddenly-new joint between her elbow and wrist. "Incoming!" she screamed into the radio as the digger ground forward, crashing into the bank.

Cornelius dived for the manager, not caring if he broke the man's ribs so long as he knocked him clear. They tumbled like lovers as the 'dozer blade crashed into the horseshoe desk, tearing it up and crushing it into a pile of rubble. Anderson jumped out of the way. Quartermain tripped on her perp, the 'dozer blade slamming into her. It sent her sprawling in a loose-limbed tangle.

To the dust-choked and scream-filled air was added another layer of sound – the whooping howl of a fire-alarm. The door to the vault burst open, and waves of black-edged flamed roiled out, rolling along the ceiling in billowing clouds of thick, acrid smoke. The suppression systems kicked in instantly, jets of halon hissing from the ceiling.

Cornelius struggled to his feet. There was a slender man wearing a black-and-yellow striped jersey with spiked blond hair clambering out of the digger's cab. He stood on the upraised 'dozer blade with his arms spread, howling with laughter as he raised his manically-grinning face to the ceiling.

"Drokking crazy," muttered Cornelius, drawing his lawgiver.

At first, he thought he'd been shot – the sudden pain was that bad, a screaming spike of searing agony in his forearm. But then his neck burned as if a red-hot poker were pressed to it; instinctively, he grasped at the wound, feeling the delicate crunch of an insect between his gloved fingers. Another wasp stung his gun hand; the pain made his shot go wide.

The air was thick with wasps, the insects pouring through the doors not in an uncoordinated swarm, but a wheeling, banking, streaming flock that was targeting him, Anderson and Quartermain. The citizens were, judging by their screams of agony and flailing motion, getting stung too – but most of their ire was reserved for the black-and-bronze. The manager shrieked, slapping his hair and skin as he ran for his office. "Jackie!" Cornelius bellowed – he could all-but-hear Brufen's voice reading that seemingly-inconsequential line from her medical file; _allergic to hymenoptera venom_.

He grabbed a canister of insecticide, slapping a breaching charge to it. The wasps were still hitting him, fiery needles piercing his flesh as he moved into the heart of the swarm. He knew the damage from a sting was minor, the pain entirely disproportionate – but that didn't stop the agony, nor the fear the sheer number of wasps would kill him. He tossed the improvised grenade – it detonated above Quartermain's prone body, a rain of twitching, spastic wasp corpses dropping to the ground as the liquid splattered them – and sprayed another can frantically around him.

Anderson cocked her head, her eyes closed and concentration palpable, her mental fortitude and constant familiarity with pain allowing her to push through the stings' distraction. "Tastes like tin . . ." she muttered. She pressed her fingertips to her temples, so focusedly-immobile she was practically shuddering. The man standing on the digger swayed, grasping at the roof of the cab to support himself. The wasps hung thick and humming in the air, no longer attacking, starting to clump together in shivering, huddled masses on plants and furniture.

Cornelius reached Quartermain's side and lifted her up, insect corpses crunching under his feet. Both of them were drenched in harsh insecticide, the frothy liquid dripping off their uniforms. She was neither conscious nor breathing, her skin pale beneath the welts, her face and neck grotesquely swollen. Cornelius fumbled for a syringe, pulling the cap off with his teeth and injecting it into her thigh. His own hands were trembling now, every nerve on fire, uniform painfully tight as his flesh started to swell.

But at least the wasps had stopped attacking – they were no long moving with seeming-purpose, not attacking in a coordinated assault but instead only stinging defensively. Anderson was kneeling on the floor, the man who'd driven the digger slumped in the bucket of the 'dozer blade. Cornelius was no psi, but even he was aware of the furious connection between the two of them, locked in a mental duel he couldn't hope to comprehend. He had instants to decide – help Anderson or get Quartermain out of there.

He made his choice – the Cadet would be dead in _moments_ unless he did something, and Anderson looked like she could handle herself. He ran for the manager's office, sweeping papers and files off the desk and setting the dead weight of Quartermain down. The door closed behind him, sealing the wasps outside. Her pulse was thin and reedy, her chest gulping frantically. She was trying to breathe, but her swollen throat wouldn't let her. "Control, emergency patch to Medi-Div, requesting autodiagnosis and treatment." An icon in his visor's HUD flashed for a few seconds and then reported '_DB UPLINK ONLINE_'. "Oh, Grud have mercy . . ." he muttered at the robodoc's suggestion. He drew his boot knife and said a prayer.

Anderson could feel wasps crawling over her; the collective, metallic 'mind' of the swarm – like she imagined a robot's brain would taste if she could psynse mechanical intelligence – was concerned only with its own survival now she was blocking the psyker's influence. It was cold for the swarm, it should be hibernating. It was drawing its members together, bivouacing to conserve body heat, accepting losses to ensure survival. It was mathematical, remorselessly logical, utterly devoid of emotion – collective, communist, hive-minded, making all decisions for the greater good, individual nodes always ready to sacrifice themselves for a sufficiently good reason.

Had the situation not been so serious, she would have been fascinated by the otherness, amazed and humbled by the raw intelligence she could psynse. As it was, however, she was only peripherally aware of it, the lion's share of her psychic energies devoted to a titanic struggle to block the psyker's powers.

She was wrestling with him, wrapping the limbs of her mind around his. She was stronger than him, far more capable – but he had some special connection with the swarm, a way to communicate with them and give them orders. His particular power made him an octopus in her mindscape, multiple tentacles flailing as they tried to signal the wasps. His mind was a crimson storm of rage, his anger building as she pinned him down.

The HUD highlighted a desired incision line on Quartermain's neck. Cornelius' blade trembled with the pain and nerve-damage from the venom, vibrating over her throat even as he held it with both hands. He pressed the tip to her flesh and sliced down. Blood and air burst from her neck – he pushed the blade a little deeper, levering the stoma open. "Pen!" he ordered the bank manager.

Hershey grit her teeth and snapped her arm back into place with a cry. The pain made her black out for a second; when she came to, another van had pulled up outside the bank, more black-and-yellow painted gangers leaping from it and running into the bank, heedless of the swarm. Awkwardly, Hershey drew her lawgiver with her off hand, struggling to her feet and moving to draw a bead on them. She slipped on a bloody puddle, her right arm going out automatically to save her. She screamed in pain as her broken arm was twisted, crashing down on her side. Two of the perps turned, spraying her position with automatic fire. She flinched, squeezing into what little cover there was, pinned down and unable to return fire.

Anderson was still struggling with the psyker, but he was trying a different tactic now. He was concentrating all his efforts on a single wasp, making it worm its way under the gorget of Anderson's uniform, crawling determinedly beneath the leather and elastane to nestle between her breasts, its sting poised directly over her heart. She could feel its wings and legs against her sensitive flesh, a distracting and maddening tickling. Try as she might, she couldn't stop him from speaking to this one wasp – not constantly, not without letting him control the rest of the swarm. Now and then, she managed to block him and the insect buzzed frantically inside her armor, uncertain of where it found itself but relatively happy in the warm darkness. But then he would find a way around her walls and it would continue its determined journey.

The distraction got too much – she slammed her heel of her hand against the plastron of her armor, crushing the wasp between her uniform and breastbone. She felt its body pop disgustingly against her flesh, stinging instinctively as it died. The sudden pain – venom injected into sensitive flesh that rarely saw the light of day let alone wounds – was just enough to break her concentration. The psyker cackled with laughter as he broke free, lifting his arms theatrically. The swarm swept into the air, the room filled with angry drone of thousands of wasps buzzing in unison.

Cornelius sealed the edges of the impromptu tracheotomy with biofoam; bloody spittle frothed from the pen barrel, but Quartermain was getting air into her lungs. He leaned on the desk, his vision blurring, the venom catching up with him – he was going into shock. _Not yet, you weak-kneed son-of-a-spug_, he thought deliriously. He looked through the glass into the foyer – perps were running out of the bank, bags of loot on their shoulders. The room was filled with a thick haze of wasps, waves of them flowing back and forth like the tide.

Standing atop the 'dozer blade, the psyker swept his hands towards the kneeling figure of Anderson and the swarm descended on her in a screaming howl of stings and wings. "Armor piercing," Cornelius croaked frantically, and desperately snap-fired.

The pain and poison spoiled his aim; he only winged the psyker, knocking him back. But it was enough – the swarm broke apart inches from Anderson, the synchronized insects' harmonious tone becoming a discordant buzzing as his concentration failed. She cried aloud in pain as some of the wasps – angry or confused, or responding to some pheromone signal from their crushed sibling – stung her.

The psyker leaped down from the 'dozer blade and fled. Cornelius lifted his gun, but his arms were heavy as lead, his vision blurred so much he was seeing double, his entire body feeling as if it were on fire. His fingers were fat as sosijes; they wouldn't fit inside the trigger guard.

Neither Anderson nor Hershey hit the fleeing psyker either; he dashed through the door, the swarm swirling around him like a cape, leaving the foyer strewn with rubble, wreckage and the corpses of insects and men.

**A/n :** Another chapter – I am alternating between this and "The Return of Rico", and eagle-eyed viewers will notice connections between the two stories.

Nothing really to say in terms of author's notes here – tell me what you think! Review box is right under here – I always return the review love!


	4. Hospital

**Prog 4 : Hospital**

"How's she doing?"

Cornelius turned from where he was looking through the window of Quartermain's room in the Hall of Justice medical wing. The antivenin and antihistamine shots had made him woozy, and it took him a moment to focus on Hershey's face. "How do you think she's doing?" he asked acidly. "She just got stung half-to-death and had her throat sliced open by a bootknife."

Hershey gave a one-shouldered shrug – her right arm was immobilized, the bone-knitter's lights flashing as it healed the fracture. "You saved her life," she said.

Cornelius turned back to stare at Quartermain – she looked vulnerable out of armor, small in the hospital bed, crimson hair and bloody welts a stark contrast to the deathly pallor of her skin and the crisp white of the sheets. Wires and electrodes led to quietly beeping screens, green lines spiking evenly, an IV drip-drip-dripping drugs into her arm. "After endangering it," he said bitterly. He pressed his fist firmly against the glass and grit his teeth. "I _knew_ she was allergic," he snarled. "I should never have let her come – it's my job to protect her. She's just a kid – she has _nightmares_ for Grud's sake!" The image of her silly drawing stole into his mind – the little Quartermain-kitty nestled in the crook of his arm, thinking she was safe and protected. "She trusted me and I let her down."

"Hey!" Hershey shoved him hard in the shoulder, spinning him around. "You quit that spug or, Grud help me, I'll kick your ass, broken arm or not."

"I'd like to see you try," muttered Cornelius.

"Yeah, well, you will if you don't cut it out." Hershey had to admit Cornelius had impressed her – initially, when Daz had assigned him to her during the block war and now with the way he'd handled this case so far. But this – while understandable – was troubling. SJS' motto might be _who judges the Judges?_ but it was Department-wide policy to watch, mentor, advise and correct others. She had a responsibility here to make sure Cornelius didn't slide into some emotional melancholy. "It's not your job to protect her – it's your job to _train_ and _command_. You put an officer on the streets – fine, in a risky situation, but we're _all_ allergic to bullets and there's more of those than wasps out there. We don't coddle and we don't wear kid gloves; now, if you think your girl can't hack it . . ."

Cornelius squared up to her. "She can hack it," he said firmly.

"I agree," said Hershey. "She surprised me – or maybe you did; you're her designated Tutor? You're doing a damn good job. She did well in there, and I should have listened to her – if I had, I wouldn't be nursing this arm. Tell me this; you know her better than me – would she rather it was you or her lying in that bed right now?"

Cornelius turned away, embarrassed by the affection between him and the Cadet. "She doesn't get to make that choice," he said shortly.

"And neither do you," said Hershey triumphantly. "Now, you want to get this son-of-a-spug? We need to put this behind us, learn from it and move on. What have we got? You and Anderson fit for duty? Where is she?"

Cornelius nodded. "Doc signed off ten minutes ago. Cassie's downstairs, interrogating the grabs. Harmon and Brufen are en route, should have info from the scene. When they get here we can put it all together, see where we are."

Something about the way he said it piqued Hershey's curiosity. "'Downstairs'?" she asked meaningfully. Cornelius gave munce-munching grin – despite her best efforts, even Hershey felt her heart flutter just a little; Cornelius was better-looking than any Judge had a right to be, and she wondered just how Anderson and Quartermain managed to avoid being distracted. Maybe they didn't, she realized.

"Well," said Cornelius with a careful glance over each shoulder, "this is classified – but PsiDiv has secured facilities under the medical wing." Hershey nodded slowly.

"While we're waiting," she said, "can I ask you something? Off the record, Street-to-Street; do you think this psi thing can work?"

"You dissin' my girls, Hershey?" Cornelius' smile was handsome as ever, but there was steel behind it now. "Street-to-Street? I might be a blunt, but my file reads 'Psi'."

One of Hershey's pencil-stroke brows kinked in surprise. "'Blunt'?" she asked. "That's what muties call us now?"

Cornelius's smile finally vanished. "Only if we call 'em muties," he warned.

Hershey spread her hand in surrender. "Hey, I don't want to piss anyone off, and I'm not dissing anyone, believe me. I've worked with Anderson – she broke a case wide open, saved my life, good, _good _Judge. And the Cadet's impressive; even putting the wacky spug aside, I've seen seniors less ready than she is. But I'm not asking about _them_ – I'm asking about psis; can it work?"

For the second time that morning, Cornelius realized what Hershey was doing. "Gotcha, Chief Judge," he said, "gotcha. You aren't asking as Street; this is a long term, heavy-bronze question, right?" Hershey's face was a carefully-neutral political mask. "Yeah, it can work – more than work. Even outside of this kind of crime, the judicial value of psi-assets is too valuable to ignore. Resources must be diverted and latitude given."

Hershey seemed to consider. She nodded. "Thanks," she said shortly. She turned as the door opened and three men entered the corridor; two she recognized as Brufen and Harmon. The third was slim and dark-haired, dressed in a rust-red flightsuit with cit-auxiliary shoulder flashes. Bizarrely, he was carrying a battered, much-repaired and well-loved toy animal. "Brufy called me," he explained. "She okay?" Cornelius grit his teeth and turned away guiltily.

"Robodocs fixed my butcher-work," he said tightly. "Pumped her full of venom-binders and antihistamine, hooked her up to a blood-scrubber. Should be coming around pretty soon."

"So . . . 'yeah' and 'I saved her life, Nick'?" Betancourt said. "Quit beating yourself up."

Cornelius narrowed his eyes. "I've already had this conversation, Betancourt," he said without humor.

"Yeah?" asked Betancourt. "So why're you having it again?" He didn't wait for a response. "Can I go see her? Nick," he said to Hershey by way of introduction, shoving out his left hand.

The minor kindness wasn't lost on the wounded woman – she smiled as she shook it. "Judge Barbara Hershey," she said. She kept hold of his hand. "Betancourt, is it? Nick Betancourt?"

The pilot grinned. "That's my name, Judge," he admitted. "Don't wear it out or I'll invoice the Department for a new one."

"Wing Commander _Nicolai_ Betancourt?" she asked, her thin lips stretching into an unaccustomed smile. "Officer commanding the 12th Fighter-Bombers during the South Asian conflict? The Hero of Pingpongyang? DFE _and bar_?"

Betancourt gave a slightly-sickly smile. He blushed and turned away. "That was a long time ago, Judge," he said softly, his eyes distant. "Can I go see her, JC?" he asked Cornelius urgently. "I brought her kitten."

Cornelius nodded. "Sure," he said. Betancourt smiled his thanks and fairly ran away. Cornelius shook his head and held a finger to his lips as Hershey gawped. "Let it go," he advised.

"But . . . but . . ." Hershey looked through the window at Betancourt tucking the stuffed toy under Quartermain's arm. "The fall of Pingpongyang? The last H-wagons out? That was _him_! Man's a drokking _hero_ . . ."

"Like he said," Cornelius told her darkly, "that was a long time ago."

Hershey rolled her eyes "It was _five years_, Cornelius!"

"I think it was a _lifetime_, Babs," Anderson said knowingly. She'd appeared with the suddenness of a conjuring trick. She had a cup of coffee in her hand, in gross defiance of the robodoc's admonition to avoid caffeine. "Everything good, John?" she asked, butcher-blue eyes kinking. Cornelius nodded. "_Liar_," she said without malice, stepping past him to push open the door. "How you doing, Jackie?" she asked.

Quartermain's emerald eyes dragged themselves open. "I was _sleeping_, boss," she complained – her voice was a faint croak. She pulled the kitten closer to her. "Thanks, Nick," she rasped with a smile. "_Oppa_ with you, boss?" she asked.

Anderson gave her a blank look of incomprehension. "She means JC, Cass," Betancourt glossed. "It's SoAz – means 'big brother'. Drugs making you a little loopy, Miss Q?" he asked with a grin as she blushed, realizing what she'd said. "He's right here."

Quartermain grasped Anderson's shoulder and pulled herself up into a sitting position, swinging her feet onto the floor. Cornelius held out a hand to stop her, telling her to stay in bed, but she just grabbed his arm and used it to stand upright, swaying uncertainly on trembling legs. She tugged the hospital smock down so it was decent, pushing her tangled hair behind her ears. "Cadet Quartermain reporting for duty, Sir," she croaked. She swallowed spittle that had gathered in her mouth, wincing as it passed through her tender throat. Her neck was bandaged, hiding whatever had been done to repair the emergency-injury to her trachea.

Cornelius shook his head and put his arms under her knees and shoulders, lifting her easily and setting her back in the bed despite her complaints. "Rest, Jackie," he said, "you're in no fit state to . . ."

"I'm fit, Sir!" she exclaimed. The force of her voice aggravated her throat and she coughed, clutching at her neck as the paroxysms pained her wound. Anderson reached for the call button, but Quartermain waved her off, reaching for a glass sitting beside her bed. "I'm good," she lied unconvincingly. She sipped at the ice-water – the others noticed critically as thin tendrils of blood spilled into it from her saliva. "Please don't bench me, Sir – I'm sorry I goofed, but . . ."

"You didn't goof – I did." Cornelius pulled the flimsy gown to cover her shoulder from where it had slipped down. "That's on me – I'm sorry." He tided her hair a little and then pulled the plastic bin from under the bed, rummaging through her uniform and equipment. "I ain't benching anyone – least of all you. You're the only one who's given us anything worth a damn so far." He held out her badge; she smiled at him softly for a second and then took it, pinning it to the smock. The weight of the bronze pulled it off her shoulder again. "What _have _we got, Cassie?" he asked.

Anderson nudged at Quartermain's ankles; she bent her legs and drew them up, perching pixie-like as she wrapped her arms around her calves and rested her chin on her knees, giving her boss space to sit on the bed and spread dataslates before her. "You don't want to go downstairs?" Hershey asked Cornelius – the tone was subtle, but it was clear enough she wasn't asking the question in order to know the answer but rather in order that Anderson would know she knew.

"The gang's all here," said Cornelius. "Interrogations turn up anything useful?"

Anderson shook her head. "Not at lot – our perp kept his minions in the dark about future plans, but our hunch was right; he recruited displaced gangers."

"Cheap to hire, need protection in the underworld, can't afford to be picky about who they work for," mused Hershey.

"Right," said Anderson. "He paid cash upfront – not a lot, but enough to suggest he was at least middle class before he started this gig."

"Maybe it's not his first crime spree?" suggested Harmon. The Judges all turned to look at him, and Nick smiled at his temerity. "Sorry," he quailed, "shutting up now."

"No, it's a good suggestion – keep making 'em," said Anderson. "Our grabs didn't think so, though – he lacked experience, didn't know the lingo, 'talked fancy' they said. Frankly, they think he's a bit of a kook; he had a flair for the dramatic, crazy about his wasps – the stripes on the van, the face paint, all that."

"But they still agreed to work for him?" asked Cornelius. "Like Jackie said, that was an amateur play – they went along with it."

"It was an amateur play that _worked_," said Hershey. "That makes it pro. That vault should never have opened; I want to know how it did." Anderson shrugged, but it was Brufen who answered.

"The vault goes into lockdown the moment the alarm's tripped," he explained, "but there's a failsafe mechanism. In the event of a fire inside the vault, the door opens automatically if there's someone trapped inside."

"But there was no-one inside," said Anderson. She tapped her temple. "Trust me, Brufy – I know."

The Tek-Judge smiled – such a thing was rare, and only because he'd got to be useful, but still a pleasant sight. "An RFID keychip _was_," he said triumphantly, "and that's what the sensors look for. Vaults can't be airtight; if someone got locked in Friday afternoon you'd be opening a tomb on Monday. There are ventilation shafts – a couple of inches wide, with mag-gates to foil microbots. But that wouldn't stop a wasp – no circuits for the EMP to fry – and the RFIDs are shielded."

"So, what?" asked Hershey. "Our perp kills the first vic, cuts the keychip out of his arm, gives it one of his wasps and sends it into the vault? How'd he start the fire?"

"Oh, any number," said Brufen cheerfully. "Some kind of incendiary – white phosphorous would work. That would make enough heat and smoke to trip the alarms. Wouldn't even need an electronic fuze – plenty of ways to time it accurately enough with chemicals."

"And the wasps could carry that through the ventilation shafts?" asked Cornelius. Brufen glanced questioningly at Harmon.

"How big are we talking?" the AC officer asked.

"RFID chip's the size of a grain of rice. The incendiaries could be miniaturized – about as big as a vitamin pill, maybe? You'd need quite a few to set off the alarms, but they're crackerjack chemistry to make. Find guides on the internet."

"'Crete-wasps could do it," said Harmon decisively. "They carry their young around in their mandibles – they're about that big. But, they _wouldn't_ – that's what I'm trying to tell you. I spoke to my boss; he says I'm with you guys until this is solved. Last thing animal control want is too much of a . . ." He blushed as his voice trailed off.

"Too much of a _judicial_ response, Officer Harmon?" Anderson finished for him dryly, her blue eyes amused and innocent.

"I'm sorry, Ma'am – I shouldn't have . . ." He realized he hadn't spoken. "_Thought_ that?" He shivered, looking at her nervously and making it obvious he wasn't staring at Quartermain's shapely legs. "'Crete-wasps are a vital part of the urban biosphere. We don't understand _nearly_ enough about the post-war ecosystem to even guess the effect of large-scale removal – but it could be drastic. During the mid-20th century, in the Sino-Block, an attempt was made to . . ."

Anderson cut him off. "Don't worry," she assured him, "no-one's going nuclear here. The problem isn't the wasps, it's the psyker controlling them. You said yourself they weren't behaving normally – we get rid of him, they go back to their nests and hibernate."

"If they have nests to go back to," Harmon said glumly. "They don't swarm in the Fall unless their nests get destroyed. I reviewed the security footage from the bank – it's impossible to get accurate numbers, but there were tens of thousands of wasps there – that's _hundreds_ of nests, the population of a dozen sectors. And they're dying in the cold weather – corpses all over the bank and the alley. This monster's dragging them into his scheme, making them kill for him and then leaving them to die." Harmon's narrow jaw tightened and his fists clenched. "If I get my hands on him . . ."

"Vigilantism is a crime, Officer Harmon," Hershey reminded him sharply.

"Got to find him first," said Cornelius. "Who is this creep? You get anything from him, Cassie?"

Anderson shook her head. "He's specialized – very good at what he does, and what he does is control wasps, maybe other insects too. I held him for a while, but that was all I could do – it took all my effort to block him from communicating with the swarm, couldn't get a peek under the hood."

"Security footage? Our helmet cams?" It sounded obvious to Hershey. "Control can get a match with that."

Brufen shook his head. "I already tried," he said. "He was clever – all the bank's cameras show is a big, blurry, up-close shot of a wasp sitting on the lens. And there's not much from the helmet cams – Anderson wasn't wearing one and you were outside. What footage there is of his face is masked by the swarm – I wouldn't put it past him to have done it deliberately. Computers are churning through it, cleaning it up, building a composite image, but I wouldn't like to guarantee anything. I'm sorry," he said with feeling.

Hershey was pacing, her left fist clenched in frustration – whether at the psyker-perp who didn't play by the rules or the fact she couldn't clench her other hand wasn't entirely clear. "So, we've got nothing," said Cornelius. It wasn't a question.

Quartermain had been quiet – likely, talking hurt – but now she spoke abruptly. "Pull an image from our grabs' heads, Cassandra; they had to have got a better look at him. Dump it in my brain, let me draw it up." Anderson didn't look convinced.

"You know I don't like doing that, Jackie," she said, "we don't know the long-term effects. I'll work with a sketch artist – that's close enough."

Quartermain shook her head. "You _know_ I'm quicker, and it gives a better match," she said. Anderson still looked worried. "C'mon, boss," she begged raggedly. "I can handle it – you're getting gentler and I'm already _in_ the hospital. Anyway, what else am I gonna do? Docs aren't gonna pass me fit for hours, and you know it."

Reluctantly, but with palpable gratitude, Anderson acquiesced. "Alright," she said. "But no putting ears and whiskers on him, okay?" she added with a grin. Quartermain winced and blushed, casting her eyes down in shame and avoiding looking at Cornelius. She might have been about to say something – an explanation, an apology – but just then a nurse burst through the door.

"Judges?" she said with nervous urgency. "You'll want to see this."

oOo

The bubble-headed bleach-blonde held the earbead in place with a fingertip so she could hear the in-studio anchor. Her cameraman held up five fingers, then four, three, two, one and pointed at her. "_And now we go to live to the scene._"

She stitched a concerned smile on her biosculpted face, careful to not bunch her cheeks too-much lest the crows feet crack her pancake makeup. She held the microphone close to her purple-glossed and silicone-plumped lips and spoke loudly over the howling, buzzing noise on the street. "Thanks, Don! Hello, Mega City One – this is your hostess with the mostest, Valerie Vapid, with a live report from Henley Plaza. As you can see behind me, a swarm of insects has gathered in the plaza; frightening citizens, diverting traffic, and bringing me, Valerie Vapid, the privilege of being beamed into _your_ living rooms on this lovely morning. Thanks for having me – I won't let you down."

The scene was much as Valerie described – the cameraman panned and zoomed to get a clearer shot of the black-and-yellow buzzing clot of insects clinging to the traffic lights hanging above the square. The swarm wasn't static; individual insects crawled over each other, burrowing deeper into the bivouac, coming to the surface, regulating temperature according to the instructions of its gestalt hive-mind. The edges of the mass were shivering with the vibration of thousands of wings, making it hard to for the lens to crisply focus. A couple of patrolling Judges kept the crowds back, the citizens snapping photos and video of their own with cellphones. "Share your images from the scene with 'hashtag henleyswarm'!" called Valerie, managing to keep the contempt for soi-disant citizen-'journalists' out of her breezy voice.

"_Any idea what has caused these insects to gather here, Valerie?_" Don asked from the studio. "_Are they dangerous, what is the Justice Department's response, and who are you wearing today?_"

"Thanks, Don! I'm wearing Davenport's Fall collection, available from your local block boutique. From kneepads to earmuffs, Davenport's got it all!" Valerie widened her smile and arched her throat to the camera for a second. "No official word from the Hall of Justice, Don – but I did speak with a Justice Department spokesperson some moments ago." She looked down at her notes. "He said, and I quote, '_Get that drokking microphone out of my face, bimbo, or you'll be doing five in the 'cubes_'."

"_No other Justice Department spokespeople to interview, Valerie?_" asked Don.

Valerie's smile didn't waver a millimeter. "Do you want me to get shot, Don?" she asked pleasantly. "Because that's how you get shot, Don. No – no other comment from the Justice Department is available at this time, Don."

"_I just meant maybe you should . . ._"

"Maybe you should get out of that chair and come down here if you want to ask Judges questions, Don?" Valerie's voice was sweet and acidic as balsamic vinegar. "Maybe you should stop stuffing your face with craft services for five minutes, Don? Maybe you should let me do my job, Don – you pompous ass?"

"_Valerie, you ignorant . . ._"

"We turn now to Officer Bellaby of Animal Control." Valerie's composure was plasteen, her voice affable, and her smile seraphic. "Thanks for being here, Office Bellaby – you're live to the thousands of toiling citizens of Mega City One and the millions of welfare recipients our management forces us to make those ill-advised editorial broadcasts about, _Rupert_." She turned up the luminance of her smile a few kilowatts and stared glassily at the camera for an instant. Back in the studio, Gf/x added a glint to her nano-bleached teeth. "What can you tell us about these insects and the danger they pose to the city? It is, in your view, time for the citizenry to start panicking, rioting and looting, and – if not now – when?"

Bellaby opened his mouth to speak as Valerie shoved the microphone towards it, but before he could the swarm's buzzing increased in volume until it was a deafening howl. The cameraman spun sideways, panning the shot in a smear of motion and taking a few precious seconds to frame and focus. "Are you getting this, Don?" yelled Valerie.

"_We are indeed, Valerie – what am I looking at, other than a nomination for a broadcast Enney?_"

Valerie couldn't make herself heard over the deafening buzzing, which was probably for the best – she had neither the first notion nor the words to describe what the swarm was doing; all she could have done was say what she saw and the camera was getting quite enough of that.

The swarm had detached from its perch, forming itself into a gigantic semblance of a human face, shimmering and shivering at it floating above the center of the plaza. Slowly, the Brownian-buzzing stabilized itself, thousands of individual insects synchronizing the beats of their wings with unnatural control so the endless drone became a regular thrumming like the beat of a heart.

And then the 'mouth' of the 'face' opened and the insects 'spoke' with a weird, damnable, buzzing voice – individual sounds and phonemes made up of variations in pitch and tone caused by minute changes in the speed and angle of the wings throughout the swarm. Valerie gasped in horror, citizens recoiled, and even Judges instinctively reached for their lawgivers.

"_CItIZenZZZ oF MeGA ZciTY onE, WE ARE THE ZSWarM. we SPEAk FOR oUr MasZter, tHe LORD Of thE fliezzZ. YoUr jUDGEzZZ hAve sHOWn thEy arE uzeLEZzZ – we Go WhERE oUr MAszTer wiLLzZZ aNd NoNe MAY zsToP Us. yOur hoMeZzZ, YOUr BuSZinEzzzezZz, YOUR MONey; YOUr verY LivEZZz – NOne of iT Is sAFe. BuT oUr Maszter DIrECtzZz uz To shOw bEnevoLEnZCe – in RetUrN FOR paLtRy sUmZzZ whiCH yOu caN EAZIly AFfOrd, yOUr ZciTY WIlL ReMaiN sZtANdING. RefUZE oUr GeNERouZ oFfer, and ouR mASZtER dIREctzZZ Uz tO sHOW our DIsZPleaZzURe. YouR neSztzzZ will tumbLE, ANd you Will BE zSCatterEd AnD dIE LikE dRoNEZZz._"

Valerie hadn't won multiple awards for broadcast journalism and been a nominee for 'Mega City One's Most Recognizable Face You Nevertheless Can't Name' five years running for nothing; she stepped forward, microphone held out. "Valerie Vapid, CapZone News Channel Nine – if we didn't cover it, we'd like you to think it didn't happen. I, for one, welcome our new insect overlords – but I am certain the city's terrified citizens would like to know what your demands are? What do you want?"

The swarm turned to 'face' her – this close, within arm's length, the illusion was spoiled and she could discern individual insects; crawling, worming, shivering, buzzing and hovering. The weird voice enveloped her as the swarm 'spoke';

"_We wAnt a DeMonZsTRaTion._"

Valerie didn't know how to respond; she pursed her lips and nodded judiciously, hoping the swarm might offer something else. It didn't, and the silence was broken by a yelled warning from one of the Judges; "RPG! Southern rooftop!"

Hands dived for lawgivers, pistols snap-drawn in a splintered-second thanks to the Academy's training. But it was no use – even in the microseconds it took for them to draw, identify the target, aim and fire the swarm had broken apart and had descended on them in a buzzing tide. A thousand barbed stings punched venom through leather, Judges yelling in pain, their shots going wide.

The cameraman had spun an instant after the Judges, scanning for the gunman. He pointed the lens at him – a ganger in a black-and-yellow jersey and a face painted with bumblebee-stripes – just as he fired the shoulder-mounted launcher. The rocket-propelled grenade was too fast to track; screaming down and across the plaza, the tip of a lance of smoke and flame. It hit one of the support columns of the medium skyscraper on the opposite side of the square, detonating against it in a (when compared to the gigantic bulk of the building) rather disappointing fireball. Windows shattered explosively and glass tumbled, but no-one was injured – the ganger hadn't aimed into the milling crowds. Valerie watched as he ducked back, running out of sight behind the edge of the rooftop. She jumped into the camera's line of sight, the settling cloud of dust and debris from the explosion behind her on the other side of the plaza.

"Don, someone has just fired a weapon – one of the Judges called it an RPG, but that identification is not confirmed. I _can_ confirm there has been an explosion and that the Judges have been stung. So far, there seem to be no other casualties, and only minor property damage." She scanned quickly, looking for insects, but she couldn't see anything. "The swarm appears to have dispersed. At this time . . ."

Behind Valerie, cracks raced up the skyscraper's rockcrete column like stinging creeper vine, reaching the fifth floor in seconds. At the base, chunks tumbled away, big lumps crumbling to powder. The corner of the skyscraper dropped a good foot, stresses shattering the windows and popping whole panes out all over the facade. A rain of glass showered down on to the scream-filled plaza as the skyscraper trembled from foundation to spire.

Valerie turned to face the destruction. "Get this! _Get this!_" she yelled at her cameraman. "This is my Pew-Lister for sure!" She mastered herself and spun back towards the camera. "That is," she said, "I mean, _oh the humanity!_ A dreadful act of domestic terrorism here at Henley Plaza. Once again, this is Valerie Vapid with . . ."

But she got no further. The overstressed column gave way, sending the entire two hundred floors of the skyscraper crashing down like dominoes, cascading onto the plaza in a rushing tide of plasteen, rockcrete, corpses and glass. A great cloud of shattered plaster and sundered stone was driven before it, engulfing Valerie like the breaking swell of the ocean and clogging the camera like fog before the bulk of the building smashed the live-feed into nothing but buzzing static.

**A/n :** Another chapter! It breaks into two distinct parts – the "Aegis Family" in the hospital (which is there to both provide necessary narrative elements, but also some character development) and a little bit of drama and excitement at the end. I thought the news broadcast was fun – there are a lot of pop-culture references there (how many can you spot?), and the whole thing has a touch of the absurdity we've come to expect from the comicbooks.

Some details – barely that, really – of SoAz. As I have mentioned before, I am using SoAz as an expy for Korea / Vietnam but also the more recent Middle Eastern conflicts. The events mentioned here are – although given different (and satirical) names – ones that happened in Vietnam.

Nothing else to note about this story – except to give a BIG shout out to my reviewers Khayr, JudgeTrask and 'anon' :) They have all given my some much-needed encouragement; I was worried about this story, but they seemed to love it. So, that inspired me and encouraged me. (Hey, Khayr – you promised a more detailed review next time, remember? :) )

Alright, you've read this far – why not review? I always reply back and always return the review love! Getting feedback REALLY helps me know where you want the stories to be taken.


	5. Signature Move

**Prog 5 : Signature Move**

"Over five thousand dead or missing. The Nix Tower is destroyed and Henley Plaza is buried under rubble. Several other buildings are heavily damaged and will probably require demolition. Conservative estimate puts the cost of the damage at billions of credits. Power grid is out in sub-sectors five through eight, six has no water. Emergency services are swamped. My Judges are stretched thin – I lost two in the plaza, and looting and riots have broken out."

Sector Chief Fenty turned from where he had been staring out the window of his office, overlooking sector two. In the middle distance, a plume of smoke rose from the ground zero that had been Henley Plaza, the skyline ruined by the Nix Tower's absence like a smile with a knocked-out tooth. He swept his gaze over the assembled Judges and auxiliaries in his office. Hershey stood at attention a little, but deliberately, apart from Psi Division, her helmet tucked under one arm. Harmon stood between them, but closer to the crew of _Aegis_.

"Any _good_ news?" Anderson asked. The Sector Chief glared, but it was clear the psi was both quite serious and unwilling to wallow in defeat. Fenty gave a ghastly shrug.

"That news bimbo's among those missing," he said with a callous grin. Hershey broke attention just enough to crack a smile; it was insincere, oily, inside-aeroball, the careful politics of finding your boss' jokes funny.

"I knew her," said Betancourt quietly. "We worked together at Channel 9. Always thanked me after a flight, always remembered my name."

Hershey at least had the decency to blush. Fenty didn't; he looked Betancourt scornfully up and down. "And your name _is_, citizen? You _are_?"

"My name's Nick." The pilot's perpetual grin was nowhere to be found, his casual manner replaced by formal insubordination. "As for who I am . . . which will stop you making jokes about a person's death? Citizen, taxpayer, judicial auxiliary, airman?" He stared incuriously at Fenty. "Human?"

The muscles at the points of the Chief's jaw popped and his face worked, but his conscience had been pricked enough that he left it alone. He turned on Anderson. "The Chief Judge is on my ass – what do you want me to tell her?"

Anderson shrugged and seemed to consider. "Have you thought about trying the _truth_?" she suggested eventually. "Or would that be too much of a revolutionary act?"

Fenty actually started to step threateningly toward her, but stopped mid-stride with a nervous glance at Cornelius. The bigger Judge had barely moved a muscle, hadn't even broken parade-ground ease, merely turned his gold-flecked eyes as if asking what Fenty thought he was going to do when he got there. "You know damn-well what I mean, Anderson; terrorism in CapZone? None of us look good here."

The psi's smile was wide and venomous, beautiful and insinuating. "I rarely do," she explained, "but I don't polish my bronze. Chief Judge is on your ass, huh? That why you're covering it? Or is this preemptive, trying to shovel the spug on me and my team? Just think which it is and I'll know."

Fenty narrowed his eyes and glared at her. "Listen to me, you . . ."

"No, you listen to me, you _norm_." Anderson interrupted him before he could make a mistake that would cost him most of his teeth and Cornelius a visit from SJS. "You can play all the politics you want, but don't let it get in the way of justice. Trust me," she said darkly, "you do _not_ want to play hardball with me; you have absolutely no idea what it's like."

Fenty cast a glance up at Cornelius, who actually smiled. "Wait," he asked, "you're not speaking your mind because you think I'd . . . ?" He laughed. "Oh, Dok, no – she'll mess you up worse than I ever could; robodocs can fix most of what I break. You two have it out." He threw up his hands and took a very deliberate step backwards, a broad grin plastered on his face.

The Sector Chief clenched his jaw and fumed for a few seconds. "Alright," he said tightly, "what have we got? I want this son-of-a-spug caught before he strikes again. How'd he blow up the building?"

"I had a friend of mine in EOD take a look at the news footage," said Brufen. "SOCO sent her the preliminary report. The rockcrete was riddled with holes – she says the collapse was consistent with that kind of weakening."

"Your wasps made those holes, citizen?" asked Fenty.

"Officer Harmon, animal control," he said pleasantly. "And, yes, but they're not _my_ wasps, Judge . . ." Fenty cocked his head and looked at him with disdain, pointedly ignoring his offered hand.

"No?" he asked. "When I asked for aerial spraying of insecticide Chief Judge overruled me, said animal control didn't like it. So far as I'm concerned, that makes 'em _your_ wasps, citizen."

"They're being controlled by the perp," Harmon said brusquely. "If they're anyone's, their _his_. And I ain't happy about that – I want him caught just as bad as you do, Judge; maybe more."

"Are we any closer to doing that?" asked Fenty. "Do we have _anything_?" Anderson shook her head.

"No hits on facial recognition, but we started with sector two, expanded to the CapZone, haven't got to the rest of the city yet," she said. "Forensics have come up empty, interrogation of perps revealed nothing useful."

"What about the RPGs?" asked Betancourt. "I'm guessing they're 'liberated' military hardware – there should be chem-sigs bonded to the explosives. We can trace them that way."

"Already did," said Cornelius. "Army mil-grade; quartermaster at Fort Boast dealt them under the table to Los Santos two years ago. When the gang broke up the orphans must have squirreled away some gear. Trail's cold."

Hershey gestured at Quartermain. "Sir," she said, "the Cadet has particular abilities which might be useful here; she was aware of the initial murder before it happened, and was able to warn me of danger while she was in the bank and I was outside." Fenty stopped his pensive pacing and raised an eyebrow.

"You're a psyker too?" he asked silverly. Quartermain snapped to attention.

"Yes, Sir," she croaked. "But . . . we prefer 'psi', Sir," she added respectfully.

Fenty rolled his eyes, looking at her scornfully. She certainly didn't look impressive with her pale-blue fatigues and armor, pallid skin and unmistakable signs of weakness and pain in her stance. He either didn't see or appreciate the meaning of the sentencing-black lawgiver at her hip, the street-ready violations of the uniform code, the resin scabbing over the scuffed leather of her thumb. "Let's hear it, then," he ordered.

Quartermain shook her head. "My ability isn't perfectly reliable, Sir," she explained apologetically. "A lot of it is dreams, visions – I can try to predict what's going to happen, but it's not easy. And with my injuries and the drugs . . ."

Fenty didn't let her finish. "So you're useless to me?" he snapped. "Is that what you're saying?"

Quartermain stiffened her attention. "Yes, Si . . ." She coughed a little, discreetly dabbing at her lips and trying to be subtle about checking her saliva for blood. She swallowed, wincing with the pain. "My apologies, Sir," she rasped. "Emergency tracheotomy."

"I don't think she could be talking, Sir," said Hershey. "We don't want to aggravate . . ."

Fenty tossed his head and stalked behind his desk. "Doesn't look like these psykers have anything to say anyway, Hershey," he snorted, sitting down. "Now, here's what I want . . ."

Hershey broke attention and took a single long stride so she was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Anderson. "We'll be going, Sir," she said crisply. "Psi Division has a mobile command base; we'll run the op from there. I think we have the resources we need – we shouldn't need to put any more stress on your sector's Judges."

Fenty looked at her piercingly. "The Chief Judge wants results, Hershey," he said meaningfully.

Hershey nodded. "Yes, Sir. Tell her I'm on it, that it's _my_ responsibility." She smiled thinly. "Then you don't need to worry, do you, Sir? If I might be dismissed, Sir?" She didn't wait for acknowledgment, instead spinning exactly on her heel and marching out of the office. Anderson's psynses meant she matched her pace for pace, but the rest of _Aegis_' crew wasn't far behind. Harmon was left standing, nervously smiling at the scowling Fenty, for an awkward second before he turned and fairly scurried from the room.

"_Manta_'s on the roof, she's hot to go," said Betancourt. "_Aegis_ is station-keeping in the HOJ no-fly zone; we can be aboard in minutes."

Anderson led the way towards the stairwell. Hershey strode purposefully after her, but Cornelius caught her by the arm. "Give me two minutes, Cassie," he said. "Want to have a word with Hershey." Anderson nodded, opening the stairwell door and flicking her head to direct her team up it ahead of her. Quartermain hung back, glancing at Hershey. Abruptly, she took her hand.

"Thank you, Judge," she rasped softly. "Means a lot."

Hershey suddenly seemed to have as much trouble with her throat as Quartermain did. "You . . . you're welcome, Cadet," she managed. Quartermain squeezed her hand again and smiled, darting away through the door just before it closed. Hershey sighed and turned to Cornelius. "I'm sorry about my chief, Cornelius," she began.

The corridor was empty – sector two's Judges were on patrol, stemming the tower collapse's tide of lawlessness. Even so, Cornelius glanced up and down it before speaking. "I don't give a damn about Fenty," he explained, sotto voce. "Anderson's got his number, so have you – CapZone SectComm, polishing his bronze and climbing the greasy pole. He just wants to make sure none of the spug lands on him if this goes further south than it already has. I'm worried about _you_."

Hershey's pencil-stroke eyebrows went scrambling up in surprise, vanishing under the horizontal bangs of her hair. "Me?" she exclaimed. "Cornelius, I want this solved, believe me! I know I shouldn't have smiled at that dumb crack about Betancourt's friend, but . . ."

"You need to play the game, Hershey." Cornelius spoke suddenly, cutting her off. "You're CapZone yourself; everyone in these sectors is in line for heavy-bronze, we all know that. You need to laugh at your boss' jokes and polish the bronze and quit pissing him off."

Hershey stuck her hands on her hips and glared up at him. "Just what the drokk do you think I am?" she demanded. "I'm Street, okay? Black-and-bronze to the bone – it's all I _ever_ wanted to be. But CJ noticed me, took an interest in my career. She moved me from 41, partnered me with Dredd for a year, and transferred me to CapZone just before your Assessment. She's _grooming_ me, okay? For sector command, or something more. You think I _like_ that?" she asked in a fierce whisper. "We all know you can bronze-polish your way up the ranks – drokk, what do you think they say about _you_? About Anderson? It might be different if you looked like Slocum, but . . ." Her voice trailed off as she realized what she was admitting. "Well," she sniffed, "you've got eyes and a mirror."

Slowly, Cornelius nodded – he'd heard rumors, of course, and even he couldn't be entirely sure they weren't at least partially true; unbidden, the scent of clean sweat and sandalwood rose from his memories and he shook his head to clear it. "I know you don't like it," he said, "that's my point. You don't like it so you aren't doing it – and you need to."

Hershey looked puzzled. "I don't . . ."

"You're a natural for heavy-bronze, and you know it," he explained. "CJ might have taken a shine to you but if you don't play the game that won't mean a thing; others will get ahead of you. Fenty will promote someone _else_ to shift chief, someone . . ."

"I don't give a damn about that!" exclaimed Hershey. "I just want to flash . . ." She blushed and cast her eyes down. "I just want to enforce The Law," she said quietly.

". . . someone who doesn't _care_," Cornelius continued as if she hadn't spoken. "Someone who isn't really Street, not deep down where it counts. Someone who just polishes the bronze rather than . . ." He smiled. "Well, you know."

Hershey finally understood. She nodded. "Flashes it," she whispered. She looked up; he was smiling a comradely smile that was nevertheless handsome enough to set her heart fluttering once more. "Thank you," she said. "I want . . ."

He clapped a hand on her shoulder – an innocent locker-room gesture between colleagues that nevertheless made her gasp with more than the impropriety of it. "I know," he said. "You've got the good kind of ambition – you want to serve justice and you know you can do it best with bronze on your collar rather than a daystick in your fist. And you want to get there fair and square." He gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze – his hand was gigantic, enveloping her eagle-wrapped deltoid with ease, the strength in his fingers incredible. To her surprise, the unaccustomed sense of weakness didn't disgust her – instead, it warmed her. She felt layers of bronze soften and melt, her long-buried femininity responding to his masculine _otherness_ in a way that wasn't truly sexual but was certainly gendered. She understood how Anderson and Quartermain might navigate their relationship with him, and a sudden pang of _jealousy_ took her that they had a man – a brother at least, and maybe more – looking out for them. "But the world's not fair, Hershey," he continued. "There's no justice but what we make – that's why we put on the uniform. And good Judges will understand that – just remember where you came from when you get there."

She nodded, not trusting her voice to gratitude. At just that moment, she was saved by the bell – his communicator beeped and he took his hand off her shoulder to read the screen. "Let's bounce," he said, striding towards the stairwell. "We've got a lead." He and Hershey raced up the steps, taking them three at a time in great bounds. They burst out onto the roof, the hot jetwash from _Manta_'s idling engines buffeting their hair. He sprinted up the ramp, hitting the control as Hershey followed, the hydraulic door slamming closed at her heels.

They moved forward into the cockpit; it was compact, although bigger than might be expected. Betancourt and Brufen were in the pilot and co-pilot seats, the psis and Harmon strapped into a row of acceleration couches behind them. "What's the lead?" asked Hershey, taking a chair in the final row of seats and fastening the restraints.

"The owners of Grosign Tower in sector 87 got an extortion demand." Anderson had to shout to be heard over the growing howl of the engines. "Called it in to HOJ."

"ETA?" Cornelius asked. Betancourt, his face hidden by the all-enclosing helmet and its oversized visor, didn't look up from the control board.

"Ten minutes, plus or minus," he said. He finished preflights and handed the clipboard to Brufen, taking hold of the control column. "Acceleration will be hard – we're going hypersonic," he warned. "Vectored engines to vertical thrust, lifting off now." _Manta_ juddered and swung into the air, wobbling a little on the columns of downward-pointed exhaust gasses. "Lift off achieved – engaging ramscrams in five, four, three, ready, steady, _go!_" He pushed forward on the throttle and pulled back on the stick; _Manta_ screamed into the air, pressing the Judges and Harmon into the acceleration couches and slamming their skulls against the headrests. Through the windshield nothing could be seen but the cloud ceiling, but within instants they were through that and leveling off, the clouds a fluffy white floor beneath them. "Cruise achieved," Betancourt said, his voice clear in their earbeads over the howl of the engines and roar of the wind. "Mach three-point-five at thirty-five thousand feet. You may now activate electronic devices and move about the cabin, but please keep restraints fastened while seated." He turned his head slightly. "_Please_ use the bag in the pocket in front of you," he said to Harmon.

"Campfire," said Anderson, not only so they could discuss the case but also to give the queasy animal control officer some privacy. Quartermain and Anderson pulled latches at the side of their chairs and unlocked them, spinning them around so they could face Hershey and Cornelius. Despite (or perhaps because of; none of them knew much about aerodynamics) _Manta_'s incredible speed the flight was smooth and level with little turbulence. "HOJ advised Grosign to _not_ evacuate," she said grimly. "If our perp sees that, it could force his hand – we want to play this cool. Here's the demand," she said, lifting her forearm so the others could tap theirs against it, transferring it to their lawscreens.

"'One million credits, cash, in non-sequentially numbered notes'," read Cornelius. "One hour to respond or the building is destroyed. We have Judges staking out the drop location?" he asked. Anderson nodded. "Seems a small ransom," he opined. Hershey shrugged.

"Business are more likely to agree to it that way," she said. "Million credits to save your building? It's chump change. It's probably also enough to pay his gang – wasps work for free, remember."

"And it's probably not his only target," said Quartermain. "We need to stop him before he gets a rep that he _can't_ be stopped. You think he's going to be there, Sir?" she asked. "Or will it just be a perp with a rocket launcher?"

"His wasps'll be there," said Cornelius. "I don't know close he has to be to control them."

"Pretty close," said Anderson, "telepathic communication falls off at range."

"Can you block him?" asked Hershey. The psi shrugged.

"I can _try_," she promised, "but it's not easy – like I said, he's specialized and really good at what he does. I'll need to be close to him." Hershey nodded, tapping her lawscreen.

"Surveillance of that area is good," she said. "Drone coverage and street-cams. Control has already flagged three potential perps within RPG range of Grosign Tower – behaviometrics and physiological readings suggest criminal intent. All marked for judicial attention, but no Judges available to respond."

"That's the business district," said Quartermain. "Relatively low crime rate – most patrols are the other side of highway 93." Hershey glanced at her and she grinned. "Home sweet home, Ma'am," she explained. "_Fáilte go mBoston dheas._"

"Anything else we should know?" Hershey asked. Quartermain seemed to consider.

"You can see my parents' place from the observation deck of Grosign," she said with a smile. "_If_ it's open," she added wryly.

"No sign of the wasps?" asked Cornelius. Hershey shook her head.

"But they're small – and sector 87's pretty far north and it's near the coast; the wind that comes off the Black Atlantic is _cold_. Like Harmon said, they like it warm – they're probably hunkered down somewhere."

"I might be able to pinpoint them when we get closer," Anderson said. "At least if he's communicating with them."

"What's the play, boss?" asked Quartermain.

The Cadet's question could have been directed at any of the full-eagle Judges, but when both Cornelius and Anderson looked at her, Hershey responded. "You're drop rated, Cadet?" she asked. She shrugged and technically didn't lie to a superior officer. "You and Cornelius hit the potentials – we've got probable under the Security of the City Act to preemptively execute on suspicion, but I want prisoners." She didn't say it, but she also wasn't comfortable with authorizing aerial assassination of three people who might very well be innocent – nor, she suspected, would the Hero of Pingpongyang be happy about pulling the trigger. "Anderson and I will stay aboard until we have located the psyker – then we'll go after him. Anderson, you block his mental powers, I'll get the collar. The aircraft will patrol and provide surveillance and fire-support if we need it. Clear?"

"She's called _Manta_, Judge," said Betancourt. "Treat her like a lady, give her her name and she'll always bring you home. Give me the GPS for the perps – I'll put JC and Jackie right there. You'd all best harness up – three minutes to DZ."

As one, the Judges hit the release buttons on their restraints and stood, moving into the rear bay and pulling on drop harnesses. "You up for this, Jackie?" Cornelius asked quietly. "I'd understand if you want to sit this one out . . ."

"Thank you, Sir," she said – her voice was still ragged and it was clear talking hurt. She tilted her neck back and pumped a couple of sprays of local anesthetic down her throat. "But I'm good. Besides," she added, "it'll be nice to see the old town again." She locked and loaded a widowmaker carbine. "You can take the girl out of Boston . . ."

"_Two to drop!_" came Betancourt's voice clear in their earpieces.

"Establish uplink with Control," Cornelius ordered his helmet computer. "Give me the feed on the potentials. What do you think, Cadet?" he asked.

Quartermain considered. "Blue-earmuffs looks shady, but he's not carrying anything big enough to hide an RPG," she said. "Might not even be involved in this, could just be a tapper out to score some scratch. Lots of rich businessmen around here. Boho girl could be carrying anything in the cello case – but she's moving towards the transit terminal; I think the behaviometrics are flagging nervousness over her not having a busking permit. Guy with the golf bag is my bet – there's not a course within ten miles."

"Recommendation?" asked Cornelius.

"Blue-muffs and golfy look like they're going to arrive at Berkley and Columbus at the same time," she said. "Nick, put us down there. That's elevated, Sir," she explained. "We can check the two of them out and have good line of sight to Miss Boho and Grosign." Cornelius nodded and slung a scoped DMR over his shoulder, securing it to the carapace magnets. He clipped the arrestor cable to a cleat above and tested it with a firm tug.

"_Final approach to DZ!_" said Betancourt. The Judges swayed as _Manta_ banked and slowed, grabbing for handles to stop themselves tumbling. "_Drop in five, four, three, two, one, window!_" _Manta_ lurched, juddering to a stop with her engines howling, held aloft by the vectored exhausts. Klaxons and crimson lights blazed in the drop bay as the floor yawned open with a clank of hydraulics – _Manta_ was about one hundred yards above a wide elevated boulevard, traffic speeding in both directions, the figures on the slidewalk far below scurrying ants. As Cornelius and Quartermain jumped, cable hissing through the arrestor gear, their HUDs highlighted the potentials, ringing each one in a green circle.

Cornelius hit first, rolling as he landed and coming up with his lawgiver leveled. "On your knees!" he snapped at blue-earmuffs. "Hands on your head!" Startled, he complied, dropping to a kneeling position and linking his fingers behind him. Cornelius ran forward, gun trained on him all the while, and cuffed his hands behind him. He hauled him upright and quickly frisked him. "Clean!" he called.

Quartermain landed, hitting the remote to unlatch both ends of the cable. The five-hundred feet of braided kernmantle rope wobbled as it dropped, piling up behind her as she sprinted forward. Above her, _Manta_'s hatch closed and the aircraft banked away. "Drop the golf sticks, creep!" she yelled. He turned, mouth agape, his hands going up. The strap of the heavy bag slid off his shoulder onto his elbow, forcing his arm down and unbalancing him. He tripped and stumbled as Quartermain came up and swept his ankles out with the shotgun barrel so he faceplanted with a cry. Quartermain put her foot on his shoulder, pointing the widowmaker at the back of his head with one hand while she upended the bag with the other. Golf clubs and nothing but golf clubs spilled innocently over the pavement. "Drokk it all," she muttered. She lifted her foot and stepped back. "Clean, boss," she said. "Sorry, citizen," she mumbled, unapologetically.

Cornelius didn't bother uncuffing his grab – he shoved him away and drew the DMR, sprinting south-west along Columbus Boulevard. The roadway was elevated, giving him potentially good lines of sight but there was a clutch of smaller buildings between him and the gleaming glass skyscraper. It was less impressive than it might have been – lots of windows were missing, pane after pane of glass replaced with graffiti-tagged sheets of plywood – but it still loomed mightily over the sector, the tallest building there. As he ran, he kept an eye on the boho girl with the cello in his HUD, skidding to a halt and lifting the scope to his eye as she stepped into view. "Hold it right there!" he bellowed; normally his voice would amplified over helmet speakers but the range was too great for that. Instead, his mic integrated with the sector's public address system and the order echoed around her. "Drop the cello and put your hands on your head!"

She started, spinning around, wondering where the voice was coming from. She started to run, hampered by the instrument case in her arms. Cornelius fired – the bullet hit her thigh, dropping her to the ground. She clutched at her wound as the case slipped down, falling open and revealing it contained nothing more than a cello. "Oh, great," muttered Cornelius. He lifted his wrist; "Control, med-wagon five hundred yards north of my GPS – citizen GSW. Hold for interrogation."

In the drop room of _Manta_, Anderson cocked her head and pressed her hand to her temple. "He's talking to them," she said, her voice distant. "They're listening . . . getting ready to move. They're warm, all packed together. It's dark, there are vibrations . . . an engine." Her eyes snapped open. "They're in the back of a van," she said. "It's parked, behind Grosign. He's in the driver's seat."

"_Only one vehicle matches,_" came Brufen's voice in her ear.

"_Moving to eyeball,_" said Betancourt. Hershey and Anderson swayed as Manta turned, coming around the massive glass monolith and flying over Trinity Street. "_Visual . . . now._"

In their HUDs Anderson and Hershey could see the van clearly – it was the only vehicle not moving, parked at the side of the road in the shadow of Grosign Tower. _Manta_ was barely fifty feet above the ground, moving slowly, supported more by vectored exhausts than the wings' lift. Hershey checked her harness and drew her lawgiver. "Ready for drop . . ." she ordered.

Suddenly, the doors of the van bust open and the black-and-yellow cloud of the swarm burst forth like smoke, roiling out in an endless tide. They rose up and flew straight for _Manta_, dividing into two streams and pouring themselves into the air intakes in a suicidal attack. The plane juddered and gasped, the noise of the jets stuttering, retorts and bangs echoing through the drop bay as the engines misfired.

_Manta_ started to fall.

"_Initiating emergency drop._" Betancourt's voice was cool and calm, professional and almost inhumanly unemotional. Hershey and Anderson had an instant's warning before the ramp fell away – not opened, but simply fell away as explosive charges cut the hinges and latches. They dropped with it, tumbling as they did, arrestor harnesses slowing them only sightly so it hit the pavement in a crashing shower of sparks just before they did. The heavy armor-plated door skidded with momentum, slamming into speeding cars, flipping them over and sending them swerving off the road to crash through Grosign's plate glass walls.

On Columbus Boulevard's slidewalk, Quartermain's conscience got the better of her – she stowed her shotgun and helped gather up the golf clubs. "I am sorry, citizen," she said – this time, she sounded a little more sincere. He wasn't paying attention to her – he seemed to be examining the golf bag for scratches. "We had reason to believe . . ."

She got no further before he stabbed at her with a knife pulled from a pocket of the bag. She hissed in pain as the blade slashed her thigh, slicing through leather and drawing blood. She jumped back, hands spread for balance, Rawne's training flowing through her instinctively. He swept again – she was ready for it; she leapt out of the way and caught his arm. She put her thumb on the pressure point, gripped and twisted, dislocating his wrist with a gristly crunch. "Judge assault!" she snapped, slamming a stunning backhanded blow into his face. "Twenty years!"

She felt something hit her abdomen – not a hard blow, more of a shove. As the perp tumbled backwards, blood gushing from his shattered nose, she looked down almost uninterestedly. What she saw made her eyes widen in shock – a packet of golf balls was stuck to her plackart with an adhesive patch revealed by tearing off the label. There were three balls visible through the cellophane window; Penfold Hearts, the ones her dad used. But what really caught her attention was the beating of the center one's heart; it pulsed with the bright red of an LED.

"Drokk!" she yelled, tearing the packet open and hurling the balls away. They were connected together, a single explosive device that skittered across the lanes of traffic and blew a sizable hole in the elevated roadway. "Oh, now you've done it, Jackie," she muttered, as a speeding car hit the hole. Only the front wheel fell into it, the car's momentum bouncing it free and sending it spinning across the road. It clipped a couple of other cars, sending them careening wildly, before it crashed into the central barrier. Other cars frantically swerved around the hazards. She drew her lawgiver. "Flare!" she ordered, marking the hole with blazing magnesium. "Judicial-Cadet Quartermain to traffic control," she said, "traffic entering south-bound Columbus Boulevard north of Clarendon all stop." She watched, satisfied, as cars avoided the hole and the accident, the stream of traffic slowing to a trickle and then stopping altogether. "Citizen!" she shouted, pointing her finger at the man getting shakily out of the car like he was a naughty puppy. "Stay in your car!" Trembling, he complied.

She clutched experimentally at her thigh – the wound hurt, but it wasn't serious and would hold; after shouting, her throat was more painful and she had the coppery taste of blood in her mouth. She marched over to her semi-conscious perp, flipping him over and cuffing him. "You and me are both in _so much trouble_," she said prophetically.

Anderson and Hershey tumbled as they landed, falling flat on the road. Cars swerved past them, Hershey rolling clear just in time. As she did, she looked up and saw _Manta_ dropping like a stone, engines clogged with insects, suffocating and starved of oxygen. She raised her arm to shield herself uselessly from the tonnes of falling aircraft, but at the last second the engines stuttered and fired, bathing her in scalding jetwash and thrusting _Manta_ up and forwards for a few precious seconds. "_Organic matter ingestion over design rating,_" Brufen's voice said tightly over the radio. "_Oxygen intake lowered below safe flight capacity. Engine fans compromised – blades deforming, catastrophic failure predicted . . ._"

Manta's cockpit was surprisingly calm – there were no screaming klaxons, no blazing lights, just subtle alarms in the corner of the HUD. Betancourt was calm as a stone; he was mostly insulated from the noise by the flight helmet. He could still faintly hear Brufen frantically reading warnings and Harmon vomiting wetly behind him; there wasn't anything left in his stomach and bile splashed to the deck. No non-mutant bird strike, even ingestion, threatened _Manta_, but the sheer mass of the swarm had clogged the intake fans with a mess of chopped-up insects, damaging the blades and plastering the walls of the combustion chamber with sticky clag. The engines were firing erratically, threatening final flameout.

Still, as bad the damage sounded – and, indeed, _was_ – Betancourt wasn't worried; Brufen had done his work well and _Manta_ could be landed safely even without engine power by a competent and calm pilot. Betancourt was well-beyond both of those – he angled the nose upwards, holding the throttle against the stop in an attempt to burn the engines clear. "I need a landing strip," he said, "someone clear me a road."

Anderson rolled to her knees, drawing her lawgiver and firing at the van speeding towards her. Her shots smashed the windshield and she might have hit the perp, but the van didn't swerve or slow. The front grille was less than a yard from her when Hershey dived and knocked her clear. The van flew past, Hershey thrusting out her arm to shoot left-handed at the swinging rear doors from where she lay prone.

"South-bound Columbus from origin to Clarendon is clear," said Quartermain, pleased her screw-up was actually helping. She tried to but couldn't shake the fear she'd subconsciously known this was going to happen and so had engineered the disaster. Trying to decide, assuming that were true, if that was a good thing or a bad thing made her head hurt. She looked up; _Manta_ was climbing, her engines sputtering, trying to get sufficient height so Betancourt could muscle her into a glide to safely. "Lighting it up," she said. She ran into the road, lifting her lawgiver and marking the centerline with burning magnesium. She stowed her gun and pulled an emergency flare from her belt, snapping it in two and making theatrical beckoning motions with the two spark-spitting halves.

Above her, _Manta_'s port-side engine sputtered one final time and flared out, followed moments later by the starboard. "_Engines dead,_" Betancourt said. "_Control surfaces responsive. Gliding in on manual._" _Manta_ banked, losing speed, pointing her nose towards Columbus and the path Quartermain had marked. "_Lined up, speed and angle within envelope. Deploying landing gear, making final approach._"

Quartermain waved the flares, chewing her bottom lip in a paroxysm of fear. "Just follow my flares, Nick!" she begged. "Just follow them in – you can do it, Nick, you can do it!"

"_Get out of the way, Jackie,_" Betancourt said curtly.

"I've got you!" she cried. _Manta_'s approach looked too fast, too steep, the plane wobbling like it might miss the boulevard. The road – a wide five-lane highway – suddenly looked oh-so-very narrow. "Oh, be careful!" she exclaimed. "_Please_ be careful!"

"_Get out of the damn way!_" yelled Betancourt. He didn't have enough speed or height to abort the landing and try again, didn't even have time to pull the nose up. He opened all the control surfaces and deployed the emergency 'chutes; billowing domes of woven plasteen-cloth popped open, braided armorweave cable creaking as it took the strain.

Quartermain suddenly realized he wasn't going to miss – he was going to hit; hit _her_. She dived for the hole just as _Manta_'s wheels crashed down on the tarmac about ten yards in front of her. The plane swerved and bounced, the front wheel miraculously jumping over the hole and the starboard side tires squishing the perp with the golf clubs, smearing a long trail of blood down the asphalt. It missed the car crashed against the central barrier by _inches_, the driver shrieking in terror as the wing whipped past his windshield. _Manta_'s brakes howled and squealed, thick scars of burning rubber lain on the road, smoke rising from the drums. With a sudden bang, the port brake calipers failed and flew off in a shower of sparks. _Manta_ spun to the side, tearing the tires off and digging great gouges in the tarmac with its wheel rims. She heeled over, the wingtip coming dangerously close to grinding on the road surface.

But the sideways-slide had robbed her of speed and she juddered to a creaking halt. "_Thank you for flying Aegis Airlines,_" Betancourt's weary and relieved voice said over the radio. "_Please take care when retrieving your items from the overhead bins, as they may have shifted during flight._"

Down at ground level, Anderson struggled to her feet – the street was chaos, cars piled up, steam rising from shattered radiators, injured citizens screaming or moaning. Dead and dying wasps crunched under her boots, the air filled with the disgusting stench of burned insects. She looked at the tracks cut in the carpet of corpses by the fleeing van's wheels – they sped southwards on the wrong side of the road and the turned west out of sight. She stamped her foot in frustration, not feeling the migraine but knowing it was about to start. Habitually, she reached for her painkillers.

Cornelius ran back along the road, barely glancing at _Manta_ – he was no expert, but other than the black smoke billowing from the burned-out engines the plane looked in surprisingly good shape. "Jackie!" he called. "Where are you?"

"Here, boss!" she called – her voice was a faint, cracked wheeze. "I'm good." Cornelius ran to the middle of the highway and peered down – a hole had been blasted through the tarmac and rockcrete, leaving a twisted net of re-enforcing rods with clumps of masonry clinging to it here and there. Quartermain was caught in that net, gingerly not moving lest the weakened rebar give way. Cornelius reached for her and picked her up, lifting her into his arms and setting her on the asphalt beside him. She stumbled, holding on to him for support, favoring her uninjured leg. She gave a reassuring smile – her teeth were pink, framed in blood-stained saliva. "Sorry, boss," she croaked sheepishly. "I think I goofed."

Cornelius couldn't disagree, but neither did he press the issue. He looked up and down the boulevard, the grounded bulk of _Manta_ a full-stop at the end of a long sentence of smeared blood and scorched rubber. "Don't worry about it," he said eventually. "I mean, it's not like _you_ just crashed a billion-credit plane."

**A/n :** Kind of a long chapter (at least by the standards of the _Aegis_ stories, although not too-long really). But I wanted to include the action directly following the scene in the sector chief's office – there could be a break there, but despite the fact there's a lot of dialog there it's a really short scene.

A few little notes – not much from the comics here; most things are real-world inspired. Fenty is named after a mayor of Washington DC (which is where the four sectors of the CapZone are). The details of sector 87 are inspired by the layout of Boston – most of the street names are semi-accurate (a boulevard might be called a highway, or a street an avenue, but the names are the same) – if not exact details of the area. The Grosign Tower is based on the John Hancock Tower on Clarendon Street; there are several little references people familiar with the building might appreciate (Grosign itself is based on gross (meaning big) and sign(ature) – John Hancock!) Quartermain's ethnicity (Boston Irish-Catholic) is now strongly implied, with South Boston being her hometown.

I initially took this chapter in a different direction – the scene in the office was longer, with a lot more talk (Quartermain got to demonstrate her judicial knowledge). More importantly, Hershey's tone was very different – she was much more of a bronze-polisher in the initial draft, and Cornelius pulled her aside to upbraid her for that. She explained she was doing it for the reasons Cornelius urges her to do it in this version; that she has to play the game to get promoted so she can serve. That version also ratcheted up the sexual tension Hershey felt towards Cornelius (it was explicitly – as in, definitely, rather than pornographically! - sexual, rather than platonic as it is here).

Ultimately, I decided I didn't like the way that handled Hershey's character – it wasn't heroic, and although characters need flaws that one seemed both unnecessary and at odds with Cornelius' assessment of her as having "the good kind of ambition" in chapter two. It was better to flip the situation – Hershey couldn't stomach Fenty's rudeness and wouldn't play the game, and Cornelius tells her she should. That seemed more in keeping with the personality of a very good Street-Judge hand-picked by CJ for heavy-bronze.

But, I did like the earlier version of the scene and I kept it – I will be publishing it (as I did for "Aegis") as a "deleted scene" at the end of the story. So, follow if you want to read it!

And don't forget to review – tell me what you think about this scene, about the tone of the story, anything you like. I'm always happy to get feedback, because this helps me write what people want to read. And I always return the review-love!


	6. Grounded

**Prog 6 : Grounded**

It took less than twenty-four hours for Mega City One to go to Hell in a handbasket.

Grosign Tower didn't topple – Teks from J-Dept's Judicial Corps of Engineers used ultrasonic scans to locate the network of holes 'crete-wasps had munched in two of the structural columns. They injected high-pressure plasteen resin, sealing the voids, stabilizing the structure and repairing the damage.

Both the Justice Department and the Lord of the Flies – as the media was now calling him – had been embarrassed by the events in sector 87, but the coverage was more flattering to the perp; Mega City One had a love-hate relationship with the Judges, and a dramatic, flamboyant criminal who tweaked the nose of The Law with seeming impunity could easily become, as perverse as it might seem, a kind of hero. Citizens brutalized by the constant grind of gang warfare and harsh justice easily overlooked or rationalized violent and greedy excesses provided it was happening to someone else.

The swarm-'face' of the Lord of the Flies appeared again, choosing a well-televised aeroball game to issue its taunts and promises; it was seen live by millions and repeated along with breathless speculation and panic-fueling analysis from the media in later newscasts. The new message was simple; the extortion would continue but the Lord of the Flies was done playing games and being generous. Getting the Judges involved meant _two_ buildings would be destroyed, without warning. He was as good as his threat – the words had scarcely buzzed from the wings of the swarm when two high-rise hab-blocks suddenly collapsed, seemingly-insignificant explosions near their foundations destroying structural members eaten hollow by a tide of wasps. The corpse-choked rubble flooded the streets, burying plazas, highways and smaller buildings beneath it. Sirens, screams and the smoky, smoggy fume of shattered stone rose over the city.

The media eagerly reported the destruction, beaming it in living, breathing 3D color into the living rooms of Mega City One, while citizens listened in terror and growing anger as the Lord of the Flies told them he had asked for _so very little_; all of the bloodshed and horror and death could have been avoided, he insinuated – if the buzzing of a swarm could insinuate – had the businesses and the Justice Department just given into his demands and paid him his paltry sum. He ended with a stark warning – twenty-four hours to deliver, or more buildings would fall.

The result was city-wide chaos; with over two-hundred-thousand dead or missing in the hab-block collapses citizens were abruptly reminded of the fragility of their homes, schools and places of work and demanded the Justice Department _do_ something. Others blamed the rich and the Judges, accusing them of caring more about money than the lives and livelihoods of ordinary citizens. Still more were just looking for an excuse or the merest vindication a long-awaited apocalypse was here. Stretched thin by the city's constant riptide of crime, the Judges were ill-prepared to deal with the rioting, looting and demonstrations that broke out. Most people, it is true, did not break The Law, but those who did and the millions of panicking citizens flooding the streets, fleeing what they feared were deathtraps, were enough for Sector Chiefs, then Zone Commanders, and finally the Chief Judge herself to cancel all leave and declare a state of emergency.

In Zucchini Park, Judge Dredd stepped from the rear of the van and accepted the ancillary riot armor from the munitions robot stationed behind the thin black-and-bronze line keeping the screaming protestors from the heart of the financial district. The other Judges he'd ridden with – woken, like he, from drugged slumber in response to the Chief Judge's emergency order – did the same. As he strapped the semi-powered bulk of the torso and arm armor with its dangling tassets over his Street fatigues and plates, a heavyset Judge walked towards him, the siling rain dripping from his own armor and helmet. He was shorter than Dredd, squatter and walked wearily with a stoop that was more than physical tiredness. What could be seen of his face under the helmet was sallow and jowly, white stubble glittering on his cheeks and chin. The ancillary armor covered his chest and would have hidden his badge, but he and Dredd – alone among the Judges there – had removed their eagles and clipped them to the riot armor's plastron. Of course, neither man needed a badge to recognize the other, although each was avoiding anonymity for a different reason.

"Minty." Dredd acknowledged his friend with an upward flick of the head as he clipped the bone-breaking weight of the heavy riot shield to his arm, testing the augmenting hydraulics by hefting it above his head and out from his body. Weights slid automatically on magnetically-impelled rails over his shoulders, counter-balancing the mass of the shield. He blinked once or twice – the time-release hypno/stim was still in his system and the emergency drug he'd used to chase it out was still working its necromancy. He lifted his chin and let rainwater splatter his face – the cold shower was welcome, washing the last cobwebs from his mind. Heavy rain was rare in Mega City One, but it was the Judges' first response to protests and demonstrations – a valuable side-effect of Weather Control's necessity. "You're SceneComm?" Minty nodded.

"Chief Judge wanted to handle this . . . amicably," he said wryly. His voice was chocolaty, his accent old-fashioned – Minty had been a veteran when Dredd joined the force. "Guess she thought was was my long suit. Hasn't worked – some hangers-on went home once they started getting cold and wet, but the core group is still there. There's a couple of demagogues with bullhorns, whipping 'em up into a frenzy. Some Grud-blammed conspiracy theory; they say the Lord of the Flies is working for the businesses, that he's destroying the buildings on their orders so they can collect insurance, drive people out of their homes, remove the ninety-nine percent."

Dredd grunted – he really didn't care _why_ people were protesting, all he cared about was that they didn't break any laws doing so, but for the last few moments Minty was Commander-on-Scene he might as well do things his way. "The ninety-nine percent?" he growled. "What the drokk's that?"

Minty shrugged. "I dunno – that's what they're calling it. The normal people I guess; not the bankers or the Judges – just regular Joes tryin' to do a job." The corner of Dredd's permafrown twitched. "Heh," chuckled Minty, "didn't think of that. You wanna go join 'em, Joe? Protest the unfair system?"

It was obviously a joke, but Dredd still shook his head. "Gimme the pin, Minty," he said. "Chief Judge wants me to take over."

Minty sighed, protesting himself, but he still unclipped the tiny bronze SceneComm eagle badge from his armor and handed it to Dredd. "Go easy on 'em, Joe," he begged. "They're just letting off steam – these aren't gangers; most of 'em are crunchy granola hippy types. Some of 'em brought their _kids_. They're just trying to effect a change, make things better for themselves. And the demagogues are just plain crazy – they need help, not 'cubes."

Dredd deployed his daystick with a harsh _krak!_, punctuating the end of Minty's plea. "That's for the psych-boys to decide, Judge Minty," he growled, "not us. And if they want to change things, there are ways to do that – ways that don't involve illegal demonstration, unlawful assembly, and damage of public property. How many arrests you made?"

"Not too many, Joe . . ." Minty began, but Dredd cut him off.

"That mean you've been handling them with kid gloves," he asked, "or are you trying to make it look better than it is?" He cut Minty off before he could answer. "Go home, Minty," he ordered.

The old man's shoulders slumped further. "I can help, Joe," he said. "Put me wherever you need me – I'm still a good hand with a daystick; teach you a thing or two if you're not careful," he joked, both of them knowing Dredd would never even think about taking him up on it.

Dredd shook his head. "Go home," he repeated. "You've been on duty for what – twelve hours? Get some sleep, cup of 'caf – you've done what you can, thanks. Chief Judge tried it your way – that was her first option," he reminded Minty, not unkindly.

"Didn't work, though." Minty looked glum. He sighed heavily and nodded, gratefully lifting the heavy shield off his arm and handing it to the munitions robot. It stowed it automatically in the racks as he unclipped the riot armor and struggled out of it. The weight off his shoulders should have made him stand straighter, but if anything he looked more bowed down. "You get strange notions, Joe," he explained softly. "When you get older. Like, maybe people aren't so bad. Maybe if we treat 'em with kindness the good in 'em will come out."

Dredd just looked at him for an endless second. "Yeah," he said eventually, utterly noncommittal. The slightest flick of his head and Minty nodded, moving away, further behind the lines, towards his lawmaster and home. Dredd suddenly realized, with an unexpected and unfamiliar pang of guilt, he had no idea where that might be.

He shook off the momentary lapse and marched forward, riot armor clanking and servos humming as he moved. He flicked his arm, the augmenting exo-limb automatically stowing the shield on his back so he could use both hands to climb the ladder to the roof of the command van. The bulky Judge standing solidly took in the SceneComm pin at a glance. "Hey, JD," Giant rumbled. "You the new quarterback?"

Dredd lifted his hand as he nodded; the hydraulics unfolded the exo-limb and lifted the shield off his back, clipping it to his forearm. He looked out over the sea of humanity in Zucchini Park – his visor's systems kicked in automatically and counted the crowd, enhancing the signs so the slogans could easily be read, cross-referencing them with J-Dept databases of pro-democracy movements and other subversive organizations. Facial recognition software highlighted the large number of people in the crowd with prior records and the smaller – but still significant – number of those actively wanted for crimes.

For now, he dismissed it all; although he had a reputation for disdaining the more high-tech tools the Judges had at their disposal, only a fool would ignore such things – and while Dredd might be old-fashioned he was anything but a fool. Still; he trusted his own eyes and gut more than the machines. He scanned the crowd; they weren't the alfalfa-headed nuts and flakes Minty had claimed – there was a palpable tension in the air, the faces beneath the dripping cowls of rainwater set and determined. The ones who'd come here to sit cross-legged under tents and play gitters and sing protest songs had left when they got bored, wet and the munchies. Now, only the hardcore protesters were left – determined crazies who didn't care about the cause, maybe didn't even care about _change_, but rather just wanted to make trouble. The slogans were chanted loudly, in unison, punctuated by fists pumping the air. At the edges of the crowd, knots of protestors pushed against the thin black-and-bronze line of riot-armored Judges.

Dredd grunted; he'd seen enough. The protest was utterly illegal and if not reined in would quickly turn ugly. He'd seen demonstrations like this before – sooner or later, they always gave way to more serious crimes; theft, violence, vandalism – even rape and sexual assault. Time to end it.

"What's the play, JD?" asked Giant.

Dredd stepped forward and patched his helmet mic into the portable PA systems on the vans. "I am Judge Dredd!" he shouted. "I am The Law! This is an illegal demonstration – and I'm shutting it down, creeps!

A wave of boos and jeers greeted him. "You ain't nothing but a lot of talk and a badge!" yelled one of the leaders, his voice metallic and distorted through the bullhorn. "We've got a right to assemble! We've got a right to be heard! Judges wouldn't pay and people died! A quarter million people, a million ransom! Four credits each! You can't get a slopdog for that!" He turned to the crowd and lifted his arms, leading them in a chant; "I'm worth more than a slopdog! I'm worth more than a slopdog! I'm worth more than a . . ."

"He's a known agitator, JD," Giant said. "Just disobeyed a direct order from a Judge, and he's got multiple warrants for subversive activities. I've got snipers . . ."

"We ain't got nearly enough Judges, Giant," Dredd growled. "Not to handle an all-out riot – and that's what this'll turn into if we shoot this creep. Chief Judge wants this shut down, not a bloodbath. We go forward nice and slow, push 'em off the plaza. Shields primary, daysticks as backup, guns only if we need it. Got it?" Giant nodded and started issuing orders over the radio. Throughout the line, the riot vans' engines rumbled to life and the vehicles pushed forward, plows lowered, the shield-wall of Judges shoving and stepping in line with them. "I said disperse!" yelled Dredd. "Break it up! Anyone still in Zucchini Park in two minutes is doing six months in the 'cubes!"

The Judges' push forward had caught the protesters by surprise, and the black-and-bronze line had made good headway, but now the perps were packed more densely and had had time to organize. They started to shove back, hard. Judges braced themselves, lowering their shoulders and putting the full weight and strength of their riot armor to use. Scuffles broke out – here and there knives flashed and clubs were swung. Judges responded quickly and professionally with short, incapacitating jabs from their daysticks. Citizens fell to the ground and were trampled underfoot as the Judges moved inexorably forward. Behind the lines, other Judges and citizen auxiliaries rushed forward and cuffed the semi-conscious perps, hauling them back.

"Going pretty good, huh, JD?" asked Giant.

Dredd was perhaps least superstitious Judge in the Department, but even he turned to Giant in amazement he would risk jinxing something so badly. As if to justify his caution, the regular thump-thump chanting of the crowd was drowned out by the ear-splitting roar of an explosion. A fireball blossomed in the black-and-bronze line directly in front of their riot van, throwing Judges and citizens alike aside, their loose-limbed bodies burning as they pinwheeled to the ground.

The explosion shattered the windshield of the riot van and knocked Dredd and Giant from the roof, slamming them to the pavement half-stunned. Dredd landed awkwardly, a sharp spike of pain bringing him back to his senses as one of the bones in his forearm – he didn't have time to determine which one – snapped. He struggled to his knees, teeth grit against the weight of the shield pulling on his wounded arm, and turned up the gain on the riot armor. He stood easily, the hydraulic exo-limb doing all the work of holding the shield and his arm merely directing it.

A hole had been blown in both the pavement of the plaza and the black-and-bronze line, pieces of bodies and rubble strewn randomly. The air was thick with the stench of high-explosive and what smelled damnably like roast pork, a disgusting hash of shreds of bleeding flesh splattering to the ground amid the rain. The Judges were reeling, half-a-dozen dead, twice that wounded – Dredd didn't count himself among that number of course. Beyond the line, the demagogue lifted his fist and sucked air into his lungs to bellow into his megaphone.

Giant shot him in the head – a good shot; ten yards range, visor cracked, down on one knee and with visibility obscured by the smoke and destruction. The perp flew backwards, his skull shattered, brains splattering those behind him. Giant stood, tearing off his helmet. There was a deep cut in the black, rubbery flesh of his broad forehead, the blood trickling down the side of his nose and curtaining over his lips. While the death of their leader still cowed them, Dredd leveled his daystick and roared, "Into them! Break 'em up! Put 'em down!"

Grim-faced, silent, moving in unison, the line of Judges charged, daysticks swinging. Dredd secured his own baton to give him a free hand, taking a precious second to inject anesthetic into his arm. He spat the cap of the syringe out as Giant slapped an adhesive emergency bandage over the cut on his head; it settled crookedly, pulling his eyebrow up and giving him a quizzical expression. Zucchini Park was a heaving melee, the disciplined shield-wall broken by the press of bodies, individual Judges brawling with machine-like precision, fighting scientifically without anger or passion, incapacitating perps with precise blows and letting anyone who wanted to flee run away. Here and there, other fights had broken out – tappers and muggers taking advantage of the distraction and chaos to shakedown a protestor or three. A Judge went down, battered beneath a welter of blows – a decade-and-a-half of training and years of experience destroyed in a few ungrateful moments. "I got sonics, JD," Giant offered grimly.

"Let 'em have it," growled Dredd. Giant nodded, snapping orders into his wrist communicator, as Dredd sprinted forward, baton cocked over one shoulder. He crashed into the melee just as the infrasound ultrabass generators kicked in, parabolic dishes focusing low-frequency, high-amplitude sound waves into the crowd. Protestors stumbled and flinched, clutching at their mouths and stomachs as the noise wreaked havoc on their guts. Some of them threw up, others spugged themselves, collapsing to the ground in soiled heaps. Dredd swung left and right, daystick rising and falling in a bloodstained arc, the bronze of his badge gleaming amid the rain.

Giant quickly assessed the action in the plaza – it was unquestioningly a full-scale riot now, weapons drawn, blood flowing, Molotov cocktails bursting against the sides of buildings, J-Dept vehicles rocked by hordes of protesters. Judges were still surrounded and outnumbered, their numbers thinning, any semblance of the black-and-bronze line broken into nothing more than islands in a heaving sea. Dead, cuffed or just plain unconscious perps littered the pavement – Giant had to clamber over then, traipsing through puddles of bloody rainwater to enter the fray. He ducked under a swung club, smashing the protester sideways with his shield, stepping forward as he came up, breaking a collarbone with an overhand swing.

They were impersonal attentions – he didn't even watch the perps hit the ground.

A heavyset man confronted Giant – his prodigious gut bulged over his belt, all-but hiding the chunky brass buckle, pasty-white flesh protruding from under the overly-tight and sweat-stained yellow T-shirt blazoned with the image of a coiled snake. His face was jowly, his cheeks red as the breath puffed through his thick lips. He had a camera in one flabby hand, a cosh in the other. "Don't tread on me, man," he warned, echoing the slogan on his T-shirt. "Don't tread on me! I've got rights, man!"

"Drop it!" ordered Giant, bringing his daystick up in a flashing arc. The blow shattered the camera and the man's fingers, sending fragments of plastic and circuitry flying through the air. The man howled and charged Giant, swinging the cosh. The Judge took the blow on his pauldron, but it glanced upwards and crashed – hard – into the side of his head. Stunned for an instant, he couldn't bring his own weapon to bear fast enough – the man bellowed glutinously and grappled with him. He was heavier than Giant, but most of it was flab and the Judge had the advantage not only of muscle but also the exo-limbs of the riot armor.

He still couldn't get enough room to swing the daystick; instead, he got his foot behind the man's ankle, spinning him around and to his knees, bringing the edge of the shield hard under one of his many chins in a chokehold. Still woozy from the blow, struggling to hold the man still, applying pressure was an inexact science. "I can't breathe!" the perp choked, "I can't breathe, man! I can't . . ."

Giant stepped back, lifting his arms clear. The fat man slumped forward, his face hitting the pavement, his wheezing breaths blowing bloody bubbles in the puddles as he twitched. Giant looked at him for a second or two and then shrugged. "Medic here if you've got it," he said without much concern into his communicator. "Belay that," he corrected as the man abruptly shuddered one final time and breathed his last. He stepped over the perp's corpse and waded back into the melee just as Dredd called in the airstrikes. H-wagons swooped in hot, miniguns spitting indiscriminately-precise lances of death into the crowd as Giant laid grimly about him.

oOo

"Tell me you have some good news."

Anderson looked over at Cornelius, who shrugged. "John and I only lie to each other, Chief Judge," she said with a shrug of her own.

The Chief Judge stared fixedly at Anderson for a second, and then abruptly stood and marched from behind her desk. She stopped in front of the psi, squaring up to her. "Do you think this is _funny_?" she asked acidly. "Are you aware what's happening out there? The riots, and the robberies? What happened in Zucchini Park? The number of dead Judges I have? Are you aware of just how _many_ casualties there were in the building collapses?"

For an endless instant, Anderson just stared at her, her butcher-blue eyes unfocused, blurry with a film of saltwater. Her questions seemed asinine; how _many_ casualties? The _number_ of dead Judges?

_Aware_. The Chief Judge had said _aware_ – and Anderson was all-too-'aware' of what was happening out there; she had no choice _but_ to be totally, completely, horribly 'aware'. Thoughts, emotions, feelings – the black barbs of hate, red slashes of anger, the nauseating green fog of jealousy and avarice, the crushed and hopeless dreams of eight-hundred-million people. All of it sloshing about, lapping against your mind, leaking inside despite your very best efforts. And that was just the city as it lived and breathed, convulsing, choking, breaking under its own weight. There were so few bright spots – so very few jewels of love and compassion, of care and kindness. They swam in the cesspool of raw emotional sewage like discarded trinkets, most of them flawed and cracked with ulterior motives, those that were still pure all the more pathetic for their naivety.

Anderson had learned, years before, before she joined the Judges and entered the Academy, to block the worst out, to ignore the cries of anguish, the sobs of pain, the screams of the distant suicides. Proximity still shattered her shields, of course, and she felt the pain and loss of every death she inflicted – but she had come to terms with that, and psynsing what the perps _truly_ were, just what darkness lurked in their hearts, salved her conscience and assured her – in all but her most private moments – the price was worth paying.

But now, with the city erupting in violence and criminality, an orgy of hatred and destruction spreading from Boston to the Triangle and from the Atlantic Wall to the Pittsburgh Gate, her defenses were all-but useless. Aware? Yes, she was 'aware' of the casualties in the building collapses. And the people still trapped in the ruins – suffocating, bleeding out, dying of thirst. And the Judges, dying alone and begging for backup. And the scared children, trying to comfort parents who long ago gave up hope. And the people who'd lost loved ones and were so angry they couldn't think and so sad the tears wouldn't come any more. And . . . and . . .

Psychic pain didn't come with a throttle – there was no limit to the agony she could sense in an instant, and her heart had barely beat once since the Chief Judge had asked her callous question. No; not callous. Just . . . unthinking. Un_aware_. How _could_ she be aware? She wasn't a psi, she wasn't even Street. She was a blunt, and heavy-bronze at that. She was detached from the day-to-day reality of judicial service; the casualties, the crimes, even the deaths of Judges were mere statistics – variables in the the equation of crime to be recorded, tabulated, processed.

But not solved. Never solved. It was an equation with a permanent remainder.

She couldn't help but psynse, not with the air so thick with emotion and psychic noise, but she could focus on something else. With an effort, she drew back, concentrating on those close to her – not physically close per se, although they all were, but just close. Quartermain's suffering – a throat packed with broken glass, a blade of venom still squirming in her liver, a maddening itching in her limbs. Dredd – in the medical wing dozens of floors below, stoically ignoring the pain of a broken arm and the knowledge of what he'd had to do in Zucchini Park. And Cornelius – _John_ – worried, focused, devoted, a solid lapis lazuli presence in her awareness. For a precious, selfish instant, she slumped her mind and leaned against his.

He could only have felt the weight of her surrender subconsciously, but the instinctive response of protection, loyalty and compassion was all she needed; just a touch, a mere reminder, really, that he was there if she needed him. She pushed herself away from his mindscape, erecting her shields even as she pressed gratitude into his psyche. She blinked back her tears and focused on Goodman's face. "I'm sorry, Ma'am," was all she said – there was no point in trying to explain something the Chief Judge would never understand, and – in truth – shouldn't have to; she had her own problems and Anderson wouldn't trade places with her for all the coffee in Colombia. Her apology was two-fold; "We screwed up," she admitted. "We didn't stop him at the bank, and people died. We didn't stop him in Boston, and people died. You have to _deal_ with that, but we have to _live_ with it. We are _not_ going oh-for-three, Ma'am."

Delicately, nervously, Quartermain touched her hand. Anderson looked down at her – the Cadet had strict orders from the medics to not speak, and even if she'd had the strength to defy them the pain clouding her emerald eyes to hazel made it impossible for her even to whisper. Her notebook and pen were clipped to her belt, but she had other ways of communicating with her fellow psi. "No, Jackie," Anderson said firmly, "we agreed; you're not responsible for what you can't control."

"Then neither are you." Goodman's tone was final. "I'm blaming no-one but that son-of-a-spug for what happened; I want him decorating the inside of a 'cube before any more buildings fall or some candy-ass business pays up. Any more leads from them?"

Hershey shook her head. "But we could hardly expect any, Ma'am," she said. "They saw what happened to Grosign – and the ransom's barely pocket change. Most of them have the funds to pay up, maybe even gray-market insurance to cover the losses."

"We could lean on known gray-market insurers," suggested Cornelius, referring to the quasi-legal operations many financial-institutions ran on the side. In Mega City One, where the rule of the gun and the gang was normal, providing coverage against 'acts of perp' and other crime-related costs which couldn't officially be recorded on the books was a profitable enterprise. J-Dept turned a semi-blind eye to it – not only because such a thing was economically essential in the crime-ravaged city, but also because it was all-but-impossible to stamp out. "Kick some doors, flash the bronze and see what scurries. Turn the heat up – make 'em nervous so they go quiet. That leaves the businesses having to scramble to raise the funds – gray-market insurance is usually well-hidden in the accounts; it takes an audit to find it. But if we take that away they might mess up – Unsung can watch for unusual movements of capital, odd orders, strange deliveries."

"You got the Judges to do it, Cornelius?" asked Goodman archly. "'Cause I don't – we're stretched tighter than a drum out there. Regardless," she continued, "what good would it do? If he finds out we know, he'll think someone blabbed – he'll knock two buildings down. We need to find _him_, before it's too late. Any headway on that?"

"No," admitted Anderson. "Facial recognition came back a dud – no hits, throughout the city and the last five years of immigration."

"We've sent the image to MC2 and TexCit judiciaries, Ma'am," Hershey interjected, "but we're not optimistic; I think he's off the grid. But there might be an explanation."

"And that is?" asked the Chief Judge. Hershey gestured at Quartermain.

"The Cadet's suggestion, Ma'am," she said crisply. "With your permission, Cadet, I will articulate it to the Chief Judge?" Quartermain held up a thumb. "Interrogation of his subordinates suggests he's middle-class, educated, but in an unorthodox manner. He's very theatrical – more of a TV villain than a serious criminal – and shows a complete disregard for human life. And he's obviously a . . . _divergence_. There's every possibility he was isolated – that his parents hid him away when his powers manifested, afraid the Department would take him from them, put him in one of the extra-urban camps or forcibly induct . . ." She blushed and glanced sidelong at Anderson and Quartermain. "Like I said, Ma'am – the scenario occurred to the Cadet."

Goodman considered. "How could they hide him?" she asked. "And how'd he get his education?"

"You don't hit the 'blocks very often, do you, Ma'am?" asked Cornelius. She turned to him, one eyebrow raised at his temerity. "Well, don't feel too bad – few Judges do. And that's the point – there's so many unsolved murders and disappearances out there faking one's easy. Just report your kid missing; it's hardly likely to get a judicial response, especially if you time it right – full moon, Friday night, something like that. Kid falls off the grid – DNA and prints stay on file, but after a few years the photograph's useless. People in the 'blocks keep to themselves – they wouldn't know there _was_ a kid living next door, let alone that there shouldn't be."

The Chief Judge nodded. "Makes sense," she said. "I'm sure that happens far more often than we know, especially with . . ." She glanced at her protege, learning from her. "_Divergences_. But how'd you explain the education? He can't have gone to the city schools for it."

"To be honest, Ma'am," said Brufen dourly, "that's easier to explain if he _didn't_ go to the city schools – they're hardly bastions of academic excellence. Plenty of parents get a good robotutor to supplement city education; with that and some correspondence courses you can learn anything you like. You lack socialization, of course, but . . ." He shrugged grimly. "Maybe that explains his willingness to kill – they're just numbers to him."

"Drones," said Anderson dully. "Worker bees, ready to be sacrificed for the good of the swarm."

The Chief Judge looked at her carefully. "You beginning to understand him, Judge Anderson?" she asked. The psi considered.

"I think I know what makes him tick," she said. "But understand him? Never," she promised. The Chief Judge seemed sympathetic.

"I get why you don't want to, Anderson, believe me," she said, "but sometimes you've got to think like them to catch them." She didn't press the issue. "What about the scenes themselves – have forensics revealed anything?"

"One of my colleagues from EOD should have some analysis, Ma'am," said Brufen. "If I can bring her in?" He didn't wait for a response, rather walking to one of the vidpanel walls and patching it into the comm-net. The ninety-four percent red / six-percent blue split of Control's main dispatch feed vanished and was replaced by the eagle of justice. 'ESTABLISHING CONNECTION' was written underneath, three dots tapping into and out of existence as they waited for the EOD-Tek to respond.

The screen fritzed with static for an instant and then a larger-than-life and slightly grainy image of a Tek-Judge appeared. She was bulky in an overstuffed bomb-disposal suit, her hands looking tiny as they lurked, ungloved, at the ends of heavy padded sleeves. She was sitting in the back of a TekDiv mobile laboratory; through the open door behind her a desolate wasteland of rubble could be seen. The badge on her chest read 'Kruta'. "Hey, Cyril," she said in greeting as she removed the oversized helmet.

"So _now_ I learn your first name?" murmured Anderson.

Brufen coughed delicately, although whether for Kruta or Anderson's benefit no-one could be sure. "I'm here with the Chief Judge and Division Chief Anderson, Kateri," he said. "We'd very much appreciate your insight." If Kruta were impressed by that much bronze, she gave no sign – it was hard to tell in the all-enclosing suit, but it certainly didn't look like she straightened from where she was slouched over the computer terminal.

Kruta was attractive in an unobtrusive way – she was certainly beautiful, with her high cheekbones and dark, almond-shaped eyes, but she left her beauty alone. Her rich, slightly-ruddy skin was scrubbed clean without a hint of makeup – her job, realized Anderson, would mean she was getting sweaty and dirty often; plunging into the hot aftermath of explosions and destruction, muck and chemicals plastering her skin, sweating the sweat of fear into the stiffing bomb-disposal suit as she agonized over _red-or-green_? It would be easier to just live without warpaint than have to reapply it after frequent showers.

_Warpaint._ Anderson managed to suppress her smile; the word was appropriate if insensitive – Kruta's blood had been on the continent before the previous civilization, and unlike much in the enforced crowding of the Mega Cities it was still surprisingly pure. Her hair was almost unique – black as soot, long, thick and stick-straight. There was something out of place about it, and it took Anderson a moment to realize what it was and another second to realize why. Her hair was lustrous, well-maintained, clearly her best feature – but it should, by rights, have been coarse and ratty, dried-out by frequent showers, crisped by harsh chemicals, crumpled from being in the helmet all day. Now Anderson smiled; Kruta knew her lifestyle would wreak havoc on her hair, and so she took the time to shampoo it carefully, condition it, feed it, nurture it and nourish it – a single touch of vanity in a life devoid of it.

But Anderson was fascinated by her hair – it was black in the same way Quartermain's was red; almost unnaturally so (although, to be fair, J-Dept geneticists had speculated the color of _her_ hair and eyes might be a minor cosmetic mutation), so dark the highlights were shiny gray reflections. It was the same color, she realized, as Cornelius' – and his cheekbones were as high as hers. She'd never asked him about his family, never dug deep into his parent's files; Robert and Laura – the first names were too generic for speculation. 'Cornelius' was a little more unusual, but certainly didn't suggest an ancestry like _Kateri_ Kruta's.

"Chiefs," the EOD-Tek said laconically; it was impossible to tell if the word choice was self-deprecating irony. "I've recovered fragments of the two devices used in both demolitions – they were simple hand-grenades, possibly with an additional plastique sheath. I'll have to do chemical analysis of the residue to be sure – but there's nothing fancy about them. Most gangs have a bomb-maker on the payroll who could jury-rig it, and there's not enough to tie it to a specific cook. I'm afraid the bombs themselves are a dead-end for IDing perps."

"What _isn't_ a dead-end, Kruta?" asked the Chief Judge.

"The placement," said Kruta. "Whoever planted these was no demo guru – they just slapped them on the columns any old how. That amount of explosive, placed where they were placed, shouldn't even weaken those members, let alone shatter them or bring the buildings down."

"That's the wasps, though," said Hershey. "He made them eat holes in the 'crete, turn it into swizz-cheeze. If you were going to blow up a building, that's what you'd do, right? Weaken the columns, cut through them, drill some holes?"

Kruta shook her head, but still agreed. "Yeah, but not like that. You drill holes, sure – but you plant explosives _inside_ the columns. You wrap them in det cord to cut them. Even that's sketchy, though – you always over-egg the pudding, because buildings are built to stand up. They're over engineered, and a building that's so weakened a hand-grenade'll take it down might just tumble on its own. It's a really fine line."

"And he's walking it," realized Cornelius. "The wasps aren't just making nests inside the columns; they're weakening them _just_ enough so even a badly-planted explosive will destroy them but not enough they'll collapse on their own. That's precision engineering."

"Well, yeah," said Anderson, "but he's controlling them, telling them what to do. They're not doing this on their own! The swarm's clever – surprisingly clever – but nothing like that . . ."

"Could you do it?" asked Hershey, grasping what Cornelius was driving at. Anderson turned to her, a look of surprise on her face.

"What?" she exclaimed. "No! I can't talk to wasps – wish I could; I'd tell 'em to cut it out . . ."

"Could you do the _math_?" asked Hershey.

"No . . ." breathed Anderson, finally realizing herself. "But he can; he's an architect, a structural engineer, something like that – that narrows down who he could be."

Brufen didn't seem impressed. "Not much," he complained. "Those aren't restricted courses – do you have any idea how many curricula get downloaded each year? There are records, but it's like looking for a radrat in resyk – you'll find plenty of what you're looking for, but Grud-only knows if it's the right one."

Quartermain had been following the conversation, her brow furrowed and swollen-lips pouted in thought. Abruptly, she did a theatrical double-take and grabbed for her notepad, scribbling furiously. She shoved it into the middle of the discussion.

"'Blueprints'", read Hershey, her own face quizzical. "I don't . . . yes, I do. He's got to know _what_ he's digging into – he's got the buildings' plans." Quartermain nodded furiously.

"So how'd he get 'em?" asked Anderson. "Robbed an architecture firm? Hacked their servers?" Brufen shook his head.

"The Department requires blueprints for anything over ten stories to be stored off-line, and with serious physical security," he said. "Most firms have a deposit box in . . ." His fell to silence as the credit-chip dropped.

"A bank," said Cornelius flatly. He fairly dived for the Chief Judge's desk, actually accidentally shoulder-checking her out of the way without apology. He sat down in her chair, tapped at her terminal; locked, of course. "Password?" he asked.

"Cochineal-twelve," said Anderson automatically. She shrugged unrepentantly as Goodman turned to her with a look of blazing surprise.

Cornelius had already pulled up the case file. "Plenty of boxes were forced," he muttered. "Private citizens, some businesses . . . got it. Jackson, Wright and Rohe." He typed for a few seconds more. "Grosign Tower and the other buildings were designed by them. Their office is in sector 19."

"TekDiv can liaise with J-CoE to scan other buildings designed by that firm," Brufen offered. "Find weakened structures, repair the damage." On the screen, Kruta nodded enthusiastically.

"Do it," ordered Hershey. "Let's roll; he's got to have a beef with them, an ax to grind, something like that. They can give us answers." Cornelius stood, blushing a little as the Chief Judge tried not to be too obvious about massaging her shoulder. She dismissed his concern with a wave of her hand, gesturing him out of her office after Anderson and Hershey.

"Good hunting, Judge Cornelius," she said. "Nail this creep."

oOo

The Hall of Justice motor pool was stripped almost bare – not only had the Chief Judge canceled all leave, but also taken Judges off desk duty, ordering them to mount up and onto the streets. There were two lawmasters left; when Cornelius and Quartermain arrived in the garage, instants after Hershey and Anderson, a citizen auxiliary was tapping at his terminal, releasing them for use. He spun the monitor, presenting it so the Judges could transfer the electronic keys to their lawscreens. The two women glanced at Cornelius and instinctively stepped aside to let him grab a key. Anderson fished in her pocket. "Flip you for pillion?" she asked Hershey. She nodded, called, and Anderson flicked the coin, sparkling and spinning in the air.

Cornelius couldn't be sure what the winner would choose; to drive herself or cling behind him. He didn't want to find out. His massive hand snapped closed on the coin at its apogee. "Case leads drive," he said in a voice that brooked no refusal. Anderson and Hershey shared a blush, banging their wrists against the terminal and moving to the bikes. "Mount up with Hershey," Cornelius ordered Quartermain.

"Whoa!" said Hershey, holding Quartermain back with a hand on her shoulder. Unbalanced by venom, painkillers and weakness, she staggered. "She's going nowhere – 'field-trip' is one thing, but this is getting . . ."

Cornelius ignored her, picking Quartermain up and setting her on the bike behind Hershey. "She saw this start before it did," he reminded her. "She'll see it finish." Hershey looked at him for a second, glanced over her shoulder at the Cadet clinging around her waist and with her cheek pressed to her back, and sighed. She fired the engine and peeled out of the garage at dangerous speeds, laying thick scars of rubber amid clouds of acrid smoke.

Cornelius swung himself behind Anderson, adjusting his holster so he could draw the lawgiver easily in the slightly different position riding pillion occasioned. "There but for the grace of Grud go I," Anderson said softly. Cornelius snapped the thumb-break open and leaned over her shoulder, eyebrows drawing together quizzically.

"What?" he asked. "Chauffeuring a Cadet? I'm only a six-month man myself. Come on," he said, his forearms trapping her waist as he reached around her, "let's get . . ."

"I could have been him, John," she said blankly. Her wrists rested on the handlebars, her hands slack, her gasoline-fire eyes staring at nothing. "If my parents hadn't . . . if the Department . . ." Her voice trailed off. She turned her head to look at him, her face inches from his, breathing the warmth of his breath. "What's the difference between him and me?" she asked.

The answer seemed obvious to Cornelius. "Other than a quarter-million dead?" he asked.

"You know what I mean," she said. They were alone in the garage, Hershey and Quartermain probably a mile away by now, the auxiliary behind his office door. She held his gold-flecked gaze in hers as her hand slipped off the handlebars and landed, almost-but-not-quite accidentally, on his. "Why him, and not me?"

Delicately but firmly, Cornelius extricated his fingers from her grasp. "You said it yourself; there but for the grace of Grud." He rotated his wrist, swinging his massive hand atop hers and enfolding her helplessly. She let herself submit to his dominance, her fingers powerless in his grip. Her eyes dropped to his chiseled lips as he spoke again. "But you have to respond to that – you did, and he didn't. And that's the difference between you, and between us and every perp."

Something about the way he said it caught her ear. "John," she asked urgently, "are you . . . ?"

He lifted her hand and lay it on the handlebars, sliding his other arm under her shoulder and resting his fist against the top of her sternum. His touch was gentle but inexorable – it was nothing more than a clear sign the conversation was at an end. J-Dept guidelines for pillion riding suggested this position – the rider leaning into the driver, his chest against her back, wrists crossed over her chest and arms holding tightly. It was stable and secure, but quick to disengage in a crash or the event an emergency dismount was required.

But it was also dangerously intimate. Anderson leaned back into it, her left hand resting on his, pressing it into her chest. Both of them were in layers of armor – physical and otherwise – but she was very well-aware of his presence and bulk, his warmth and scent, the feel of his breath on the back on her neck, the resolve-melting strength in his arms and chest. She pushed _just_ into the very periphery of his mindscape, psynsing his awareness of her own presence, the tightly-controlled thrill her delicate strength sent through him, the promise of firm-softness yielding against and around him, the way he drank in her scent of clean sweat, unfragranced shampoo and sandalwood soap.

Just as there was no throttle on psychic pain, there was none on pleasure – she could get everything she needed, selfishly wanted or (more likely) foolishly thought she wanted in an instant. Even so, she might have stayed there until disaster struck if his mindscape hadn't shifted. The scent he was seeking turned to gun-oil and leather, cordite and polished bronze. As he had done in the sector 119 diner a fortnight before, he deliberately pushed his mind off her beauty, off the softness that lay beneath the armor, embarrassment and shame rising to eclipse the weakness that, in his eyes at least, reduced her. He slid his thumb off her hand and hit the ignition.

"Drive," he told her firmly, and almost with a hint of desperation.

She sighed, squeezed the hand at her chest one last time, and grabbed the handlebars. "Thank you," she said sincerely, putting the bike into gear and peeling out of the garage, twisting the throttle as if she could outrace her feelings and leave them in the dust.

**A/n :** So, the story gets a little "current affairs" and addresses (in a tangential scene) US-events happening at the end of 2014; the subject of excessive force used by police, as well as spoofing / referencing the Occupy movement of a 2011 and following. Previously, I've made some more veiled references to such things in "Highway Don't Care".

But before I get to the first part, I do want to address the very last scene – and allay some fears / disappoint some readers. This is not, and will NOT be, some romantic story. It's not that at all. Instead, there is a complexity of attraction – Cornelius and Anderson are drawn to each other and, if they were not Judges, would certainly fall in love. Maybe they ARE in love, but just don't realize it. Or they realize it but don't do anything. Think (and I know Judge Trask, who was happy this wasn't a sappy lovefest!, will understand this reference) Tony &amp; Ziva.

The sexual tension between the two of them has been a constant thing, boiling under the surface (it began in their first scene together!) This also feeds into the way Hershey responded to him in the previous chapter – he's a VERY good-looking guy, and is an "alpha male" or whatever you want to call it. Feminist readers might not like it, but my heroines _do_ have a feminine response to masculinity – even if it's not explicitly sexual.

Any comments on this welcome, of course!

I included the tangential scene in Zucchini Park for a number of reasons; firstly, it was an easy way to show what is happening to the city following the events of the previous chapter (and raise the stakes), and secondly it got some action with Dredd in – which everyone loves and expects in stories written in the _Judge Dredd_ fandom! But, mostly, I wanted to write some stuff that did the same kind of thing as the comics.

"Judge Dredd" (the comics) have a history of addressing current events via satire etc. and so I thought I would touch on that here – although I have been careful to (or, at least, _try to_) not "take sides". Really, all I have done is present a version of events – and it is deliberately obfuscated with changed details (Giant is a Black law enforcement office, the man he strangles is not only White, but also an expy of the Tea Party and actually attacks him, the protest is _genuinely_ violent, although the grievances are clearly legitimate and the response is . . . disproportionate). I didn't want to make a specific point about real-world events in a fictional story – but I did want to touch some of those notes and paint the Judges with at least a shade of fascist anti-heroes fighting against a dreadful world. We, as readers and fans of Dredd – both the movie and the man – sometimes need to stop and think, "Wait – is what this guy does actually right? How comfortable am I really with him as my hero?"

Both Giant and Minty are characters from the comics – Giant appeared in "Flash The Bronze" as a deputy shift chief in sector 119, and appeared in the comics as Dredd's sidekick. Minty appears in a single story – and also in the excellent fanfilm "Judge Minty" which you can find on YouTube. I used him here after writing a scene with him for "The Return of Rico" (he is going to play a large role in that story) but only afterward realized I hadn't finished or published that scene yet!

Again, comments on this scene welcome – but probably not real-world political discussions! Like I said, I've tried to not take sides here and this whole thing is a spoof and ridiculous satire (Dredd calls in _airstrikes_, for the love of God!).

Kruta is named after a friend of mine – my friend isn't Native American, that was the result of a joke we were making. But, her ancestry _did_ allow me to imply some things about Cornelius – as people might have seen, I do like to have a lot of pop-culture references in my stories, and one of my favorite sources is Heinlein and _Starship Troopers_ (elements of powered armor can be seen in the riot suits Giant and Dredd wear). Heinlein is famous for non-white heroes (particularly Juan "Johnny" Rico . . . whence John gets his name!) While Cornelius isn't obviously "non-White", he isn't exactly suburban Ohio . . . _if_ you know what I mean! His family's native language was heavily implied in "Flash the Bronze", elements of his ethnic background are suggested here and – if you are so inclined – you can even get a suggestion of exactly where his family might come from . . . remember; Anderson is a psi and she picks up on things subconsciously. That might come out in her words, the turns of phrase she uses, things she thinks . . . .

OK, author's note longer than some people's stories! But, there was a lot of things in here. If you are interested (and don't mind minor spoilers, I guess – there are a couple of pieces which contain such things) check out my DeviantArt page (link on profile) – some new pics there. And, please – leave a review if you have something to say; any comments welcome!


	7. Queen Bee

**Prog 7 : Queen Bee**

"Yes, I recognize him." Heff Jackson, senior partner of Jackson, Wright and Rohe, set the sketch down on the surface of his desk and pushed it away from him. He took off his wire-rimmed glasses and lay them down on the red-leather surface of his desk, rubbing his eyes with his hand. "But you have to understand he had nothing to do with the firm." He looked at intimidating quartet of Judges standing in his office, hoping they believed him.

"I don't _have_ to do anything, citizen," Hershey reminded him. "Who is he?"

Jackson sat back in his chair and stared blankly at the corner of his office, gathering his thoughts. "I don't remember his name," he said, "but I think we still have his CV on file. He applied for a job here – actually, had the nerve to demand a partnership!" Jackson shook his head, amazed at the temerity. "Of course, that was out of the question – but I wouldn't even have given him a job."

"Why not?" asked Cornelius. "And can we see the CV?"

"Oh!" exclaimed Jackson, starting forward and hitting the intercom on his desk. "Of course. Dana," he called, "do you still have the file from the strange fellow who applied for a job about a month back? Could you bring it in?"

"_Right away, Mister Jackson_," came back a syrupy voice.

"Cracking little secretary, that one," Jackson said, rubbing his hands together with satisfaction. "Difficult to get the staff these days, you know?" he remarked to Cornelius. He glanced at Anderson and Hershey, not hiding his assessing glances up and down. "You've done alright, though," he said.

"Yes," said Cornelius dryly, "they're both a pleasure to work for." One of Jackson's gray eyebrows arched in surprise, but he didn't make any remark. "Why would you not have employed him?" Cornelius asked.

The door opened, and Dana sashayed in. She was a gorgeous brunette with a dark-crimson pout of a mouth that put even Quartermain's venom-swollen lips to shame, her body's alluring curves stretching a pin-stripe suit in all the right places. Barefoot, she would be about Anderson's height but she teetered as tall as Hershey on needle-sharp stilettos. She swung her hips as she walked, her stride hobbled by the skin-tight miniskirt that barely reached halfway down her shapely thighs, her curves bending the parallel pin-stripes apart like railroads in the Summer heat. The jacket was sharply tailored, flaring at the lapels and cinched around her wasp-waist with a wide, boned belt that was almost a bustless-corset. The first two buttons of her blouse were undone, revealing the bountiful upper curves of the best breasts credits could buy and underwiring could enhance. Her dark eyes were heavily made up with smokey shadow, liner and false lashes. As she approached the desk, shaking every money-maker she had, she lifted a heavily-manicured hand to lower her square-framed spectacles with the plain-glass lenses, peering seductively over them and making no bones about looking Cornelius up and down. "Oh, _hello_ Judge . . ." she purred.

Anderson couldn't help but smirk at the tableau quickly acted out; Dana training all her weapons on Cornelius, her entire arsenal bouncing off him without even denting the surface of his composure as he barely spared her a glance, the self-satisfied grin on Jackson's face being chased off by jealous anger. "Yes, _thank you_, Dana," he snapped. "That will be all. No need to bother the Judge – give him the file and you may go."

Dana's beautiful face crumpled with two different kinds of disappointment. "Yes, Sir," she pouted sadly. She turned to Cornelius, handing the file over like it was the key to her chastity belt. She bit worried her plump lower-lip with very even, very white teeth and launched a final salvo. "If you want me to . . . _go over_ anything I'll be at my desk," she said hopefully.

Watching her leave seemed to mollify Jackson – his eyes seemed glued to the hypnotic swinging of her well-padded rear and the plumb-line straight seams in her stockings. "Cracking little secretary, that one," he muttered to himself. "Cracking."

"Yes," said Hershey dismissively, "I'm sure her surgeon's very proud. Now, why didn't you offer our perp a job? Why's he targeting _your_ buildings?"

Jackson snorted, standing up and pacing nervously behind his desk. "I have no idea!" he exclaimed. "Really, who knows why a criminal does what he does? Not I, certainly – I'm a law-abiding citizen; I don't claim to understand _degenerate malcontents_ like him. Isn't he some kind of wretched _mutie_?" As irony would have it, he turned to Anderson. "Can't expect anything better from those people," he told her. "Don't know what's good for them. You know we designed hab-blocks for them? Would have allowed them to remain in the city – isolated, of course, but within the walls. The first 'block was built, but some bleeding-heart _advocacy_ group kicked up a stink; said it was _dehumanizing_, all the identical cells . . . er, _apartments_. Didn't like the fact the walls were bare 'crete – I ask you, is the city _made_ of money? I will admit – the airflow could have been better, and it did get a little warm and damp – but I never accepted the complaints about the garbage and sewage disposal. They were _quite_ adequate for such . . . well, _people_ is generous. For _them_. Filthy, you know," he said confidentially. "Like to be dirty."

"That why you didn't give him a job?" asked Anderson coolly. "No personal hygiene?" Jackson snorted.

"Don't be silly!" he exclaimed. "His suggestions for general habitation were ridiculous – little more than a prison, identical cells, no care for the person. I told him they were terrible – he wouldn't listen, ranted and raved about efficiency, about discarding individuality for the sake of the group, sacrificing for the good of the swarm. He wouldn't shut up; I had to have security throw him out – you know he leered at poor Dana? Promised her the world – jewels, flights, clothes. Said she would make a wonderful _queen_ – as if _she_ would be interested in someone like _him!_" He shook his head. "Some people just don't know how to treat a cracking piece of totty like that," he opined.

The three women shared a disbelieving look. "I think we have motive," said Cornelius dryly. "He's angry, biter, marginalized – probably his only friends are the wasps, he starts to think like them. No wonder he studied architecture and engineering – that's what they do, instinctively. He has ideas for buildings – they're more hives than homes, so he goes to the architects who've already built that kind of thing. Then Prince Charming here," he flicked his chin at Jackson, "kicks him out on his ear and tells him he's an idiot. So he decides the Lord of the Flies will show us all."

Jackson gawped. "Are you suggesting this is somehow _my_ fault, Judge?" he asked. "How dare you! I've been nothing but helpful and this is what I get? I've got a good mind to report you to your superiors! I think this interview is over." He pressed a button on his intercom. "Dana?" he asked. "Have security show our _guests_ out." There was a muffled noise over the speaker, a suppressed shriek and the crash of falling furniture. "Dana?" asked Jackson.

Cornelius was already in motion, drawing his lawgiver and running for the door – but Quartermain was quicker. She dived for him, wrapping her arms around him and trying to shove him to the side.

Of course, she had about as much chance of doing that on her own as she had lifting the Hall of Justice, but Cornelius understood what she was doing and grabbed her, picking her up one-handed and diving clear of the explosion that blew the door off its hinges. Anderson had a splintered second warning thanks to Quartermain's psychic scream – she shoved against Hershey and the two of them tumbled together to the floor in a confused tangle of limbs.

The explosives were home-made breaching charges; powerful enough to cut the hinges and latch, but so dirty-burning they filled the small room with thick smoke. Jackson coughed and hacked, waving his hands to try to clear the smog from the air. "He's here . . ." murmured Anderson.

As if summoned by her warning, a solid stream of wasps howled through the open door, a buzzing tide that flew straight towards Jackson. He shrieked horribly, howling in agony as they stung him, flailing his hands in a futile attempt to slap them away. Anderson rolled to her knees, fingertips pressed to her temples, her face a mask of fierce concentration. The swarm, which had covered Jackson in a shimmering second skin of rustling black and yellow, broke apart and hung in the hazy air. Hershey crawled to Jackson's side, watching the quiescent insects warily – but it was too-late. He was gasping and choking, his face and hands a mass of pus-oozing welts, stung thousands of times in a matter of moments.

Cornelius sprinted for the ruined doorway. A burst of automatic fire made him draw back, bullets shrieking past his head and bouncing off his armor. The Lord of the Flies and a couple of gangbangers were there, the crazy mutie addressing the terrified Dana with impassioned urgency. "Come with me and be my Queen!" he begged her. "You shall dine on naught but the finest royal jelly and my drones shall serve your every whim! We shall live in the heart of the hive, a life of buzzing joy!" For her part, Dana struggled and tried to scream – but the burly ganger holding her over his shoulder and the gag around her mouth made such efforts futile.

Cornelius stuck his head out again – another burst smashed into the doorframe and he ducked back. But in that instant he'd got a snapshot of the room. "Armor piercing," he ordered, stepping back and putting two bullets through the wall. The ganger with the machine gun doubled over as he was shot, the weapon falling from his hands.

"Time to leave, my love!" exclaimed the Lord of the Flies, suiting the action to the word. His henchman followed, the sobbing Dana bouncing on his shoulder. Cornelius chased him, but flung himself to the floor as the wasps howled past in a buzzing confusion, stinging him once or twice in their haste to catch up with their master.

He picked himself up as Hershey reached his side, the two of them sprinting after the perps. They were running through the cubicles of the open-plan office, ducking and weaving, and neither Judge could get off a shot without risking hitting either Dana or a worker. "They're heading for the roof!" yelled Hershey.

Cornelius and Hershey followed them, he in the lead, bursting through the door at the top of the stairs instants after their quarry. A hail of bullets greeted them as a gunman sitting in the open door of a light helicopter hosed them down. Cornelius doubled over as gunfire hit him in the gut, the abdominal plates of his armor holding but the impact knocking him down. Hershey cried out as she was hit, clutching her shoulder as she dived to the side.

From where he was lying prone, Cornelius fired wildly, bullets tearing through the gunman and the fuselage of the yellow-and-black painted aircraft. He would have taken out the pilot, but Dana was between him and any possible shot. The Lord of the Flies and his ganger clambered aboard even as the helicopter was lifting off like a big, rattling, ungainly insect. It howled overhead, battering the Judges with the downdraft as it flew away. "Drokk it all to spug," muttered Hershey.

Cornelius sucked air into his lungs and slowly stood. The wasps had followed the perp onto the roof, but now didn't seem to know what to do – this high above the city, the wind was fierce and cold and they were trying to bivouac together in a shivering mass to conserve body heat. They couldn't manage it – there was no shelter on the bare roof, nothing to cling to and nowhere to hide from the cold. The wind tore the swarm apart as fast as they gathered. Cornelius shook his head. "Poor little bastards," he said with feeling.

"Hey," said Hershey, "when you're done being all Francis of Assisi, how about a hand up?" Cornelius looked down and grinned, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her upright. "I'm contacting city air defense," she said. "SAM'll blow it out of the air." Cornelius caught her wrist in one massive hand before she could activate her communicator, shaking his head. Angrily, she tore herself free. "What the Dok? Case leads drive, remember?"

"I'm pulling rank," he growled. "You're not sacrificing Dana."

Hershey rolled her eyes. "So _that_'s what cracks the bronze, huh? Frankly, I thought it'd be a blonde – you and Novak, you know?" An unworthy thought occurred to her. "Or are you wanting to collect the hair color trifecta?" she sneered, insinuating and perhaps not-a-little jealous.

For a long instant, Cornelius looked at her with silent contempt. "She's an innocent hostage, one of the eight hundred million reasons we put on the bronze," he said with dreadful calm. "If you don't remember that, then Grud help you – because I certainly won't." He turned and moved rapidly to the stairwell, but Hershey wasn't done.

"Security of the City Act!" she called after him. He didn't stop. "Cornelius! Alright – I shouldn't have said that, I'm sorry, I was angry but . . ." He wasn't listening; she had to run down the stairs to catch up. "Think about it logically!" she implored. "Yes, it's sad – but it makes _sense_ to sacrifice her for the good of . . ."

Abruptly, Cornelius turned. She couldn't stop herself in time and ran smack into his chest – it was like bumping into a wall. She bounced off, staggering back, as he fixed her with a withering stare. "For the good of the _swarm_?" he asked coldly. He didn't wait for her to respond, instead marching through the cubicles. Anderson met him at the door to Jackson's office, carrying the CV. Cornelius all-but snatched it out of her hand.

"Pervy McBigot's dead," she said grimly, "and the file's useless. A name – Wayland Sumner – and some contact details. I ran it all – no matches, it's a burn 'phone and the SSN is fake. But I know where he is – probably," she added as a coda.

Cornelius tossed the file down on a nearby desk. "You can psychically track him?" he asked.

She shook her. "He's too far away, too much psionic noise, but I'm more than a one-trick robopony, John," she added with a smile. Almost as a reflex she pulled the bottle from her belt and swallowed two painkillers with a grimace. Cornelius watched warily, but without comment. "I can guess where he is."

"And where is that?" asked Hershey. Anderson turned to her as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"He's in the condemned hab-block they built for muties," she explained. "It's ideal for the wasps – and for him. Bare 'crete walls, warm and damp microclimate, no-one taking out the trash. It's the perfect location for a hive."

Hershey glanced at Cornelius, who nodded. "Let's hit it," she said.

"You!" Cornelius pointed at a cowering worker who shied away as if his finger were a gun. "Address and blueprints for the hab-block, _now_." Terrified, the man nodded and ran to comply. "We could request back up, but with the Department stretched . . ."

Anderson shook her head and spoke urgently. "John, listen to me," she said. "That place is going to be crawling with wasps – literally. It's their home, their hive, where they raise their young – and they will defend it to the death."

"But you can stop them attacking us, right?" he asked. "I've seen you do it, Cassie – I have no idea how, and I know it takes effort, but . . ." She shook her head.

"I can block _him_ from talking to them," she explained, "that's it. If he's not telling them what to do, they behave like any other wasp. But if we come to _their_ house . . ."

Cornelius nodded. "Have Harmon meet us there with whatever he's got," he ordered Hershey. The worker hurried over to him with a bulky file. He glanced at the address. "Short drive," he said. "Let's roll."

oOo

"Welcome to your royal chamber, my lovely queen!" Sumner gestured grandly at the buzzing, writhing horror that was the infested basement of the condemned hab-block. "Here we shall live in happiness and joy, feasting upon the fungal banquet and royal jelly, raising our broods of drones and workers until we fill the city with a buzzing swarm of those like us!"

Dana had fainted during the flight, but she came to as the ganger carrying her set her down on the floor. Blearily, she looked around – and just screamed, pulling her limbs as tight as she could into herself to avoid touching the haze of insects buzzing around her or the thick carpet of mouldering garbage glistening with translucent fungus. From the bare 'crete walls and ceiling festoons of hexagonal hives hung, long bundles of six-sided tubes descending like stalactites, their mouths buzzing with movement. The air was hot and humid, dark and damp, thick with the sickly-sweet stench of mold and rot. Dana flailed her trembling hands and shrieked as insects crawled over her, burrowing into her hair, tickling her skin with their wings and antennae – but not stinging her. The Lord of the Flies looked at her with concern.

"My love!" he exclaimed. "How can you not be happy here? Does it not satisfy your every whim? Here you shall have no rivals for any affection, no other females to judge yourself against – but who could compare to you, my queen? You will rule by my side, far-removed from the drudgery of choice, the prison of individuality. With me you shall command the Swarm and let the Swarm command you!" He bent down and scooped up a handful of glutinous fungal matter, offering it to her. "Food, my love?" he asked, the disgusting mass dripping through his fingers. She heaved and clapped a hand over her sultry mouth, growing pallid-green beneath the tan.

Like all abandoned buildings in Mega City One, the dilapidated hab-block had quickly become the haunt of muggers and tappers, pimps and hoes, drug dealers and cookers. The flaws in the building's design – not to mention that criminal tweakers weren't the most house-proud of tenants – meant trash quickly accumulated in the warm, damp basement – the perfect breeding ground for 'crete-wasps and the ideal location for the Lord of the Flies secret inner sanctum.

The gangbanger that had set her down looked around with wonder and disgust, sickened and horrified by what he saw. He'd never been in here before – none of them had; the boss had met with them in bars and rented garages, as well as the premises of front organizations they owned. They'd always thought of him as crazy, but his credits had been as good as anyone else's and with their gangs broken up by the Judges they had few other options. And they had to admit the bank job had netted them a tidy payday, with the extortion demands promising more. But now things were getting out of hand; Mega City One gangsters were not sentimental people – virtually all of them had murdered, and many of them brutally and in cold blood – but a quarter-million dead simply to send a message sickened all-but the most jaded of them.

"Er, boss?" the ganger said nervously. "If it's okay, I'll wait outside with the other guys, okay?" Irritated, Sumner brusquely dismissed him.

"Yes, of course – begone from our royal chamber! Wait outside for my orders – soon our demands will be met and I shall send you to retrieve the money and you shall have your reward." Eagerly, the perp nodded and left. "Disgusting creatures," Sumner said contemptuously to the trembling Dana. "So complex, so full of contradictions and uncertainties. Imagine living life like that – not knowing your place in the world, not knowing what the Swarm requires of you, having to make your own _decisions_! But all of that is behind you my love!" He stepped towards her, squishing through the rotting garbage. "We shall be happy here! You shall have aught you desire!"

"Please . . ." she begged. "Please, let me go. Just let me go – I promise I won't tell anyone where you are, just let me go. Please . . ." She broke down, burying her face in her hands. "I don't know what you want!" she sobbed. "Just let me go, please – I don't have anything for you!"

Sumner looked puzzled. "But _you_ are all I desire, my love!" he exclaimed. "Your beauty is like a sting in my heart – it called to me, just as the Swarm called to me when my parents died!" He took her hands in his – her fingers crawling away from the fungal slime clinging to his – and drew her further into the room. "I have had the Swarm build you a throne, my love – sit upon it and I will tell you the tale of my life, and our future life together!" Tottering on her heels, her feet squelching through the garbage, Dana let herself be led towards an ornate, fluted mass of hexagonal tubes forming a grand chair.

The Lord of the Flies gently pushed her into the throne, where she slumped – tears streaming down her cheeks, smearing her mascara and makeup into dark streaks on her face, her nose dripping snot – begging him. "Please! Just let me go! I just wanna go home . . . I don't . . . _please_!"

"But you are home, my love!" exclaimed Sumner joyfully. "Sit upon your throne, oh queen of the Swarm, and hear the tale of the life that has led me to you! I knew always that I was different, not like the other children at school. I remember it clearly, the first time I became aware of the Swarm, when its ordered majesty first called to me – in the attic of our home wasps had made a nest. I could hear them, sense them, know the pattern of their lives. Their thoughts were my thoughts. I longed for the order of their existence, so far from the chaos of merely human life.

"But my parents did not see it the way I did – how could they, for they had not heard the Swarm call to them? They hired a _murderer_ who came to our home and destroyed the nest, killing hundreds of my kin! I heard their screams, their panic, saw their desperate attempts to save their young, to protect the life of the nest. It was all for naught – that _monster_ slaughtered them, as if they were nothing to him." Tears were streaming down his face now, and for the first time he seemed to notice Dana's. "You do well to weep, my love," he said seriously, "but more than tears are needed to salve this wound. Only revenge can do so.

"Oh, but fear not – for I had my revenge," he told her confidently. "I erred – I told my parents of the Swarm, how it called to me, how I could speak to it. They dismissed it as a childish fantasy at first, and I was not wise enough to keep silent – I insisted, and they realized that I was not as they were. They were ashamed of me, fearful of my power, terrified lest I be taken from them. They hid me away, forbade me to leave the house, reported me dead. My education was from machines, not people – but I welcomed it. Oh, yes, my love! I welcomed it – for they were logical, and remorseless, devoid of compassion or emotion. They were like the Swarm, teaching me what I should do, showing me the way.

"I grew older and wiser. The Swarm still called to me, drawing me to learn the ways of building, of construction – for look at the magnificence the Swarm can build!" He gestured wildly at the grotesque hangings on the ceiling, at the paper-thin complexities of the horde of hives. "I would learn this myself, and know the secrets of the buildings of men. Soon, I matured and was ready to emerge from my chrysalis into the world – but my parents would have none of it."

He spread his arms and threw back his head, screaming his victory to the ceiling. The noise of his voice disturbed the wasps and those perched in the hives and on the walls flew into the air, swirling around him and making Dana shriek and sob all the louder. "And so I called the Swarm _to me_!" he roared. "And they came, a glorious buzzing tide. They came to me, hundreds, thousands, _millions_ of them! They killed my parents and freed me from their slavery. I took their money and followed the Swarm here – to this glorious building, this building designed by man but perfect for the Swarm. Warm and dark and damp, _filled_ with nooks and crannies for us to build and breed!

"I had to know what kind of _mind_ could build such a thing – and so I found Jackson. You know the rest – I came to him, like a student coming to the master, seeking knowledge, seeking to help him even as he helped me. I would have apprenticed myself to him – how foolish I was!" He snarled and shook his fists in Dana's face in raw rage. She cringed backwards, pulling her legs up and clinging to them, rocking herself back and forth in time with her tears. "He rejected me, told me my ideas were trash, revealed his motivation was to mistreat those like me, not to harbor the Swarm. But I knew why I was called there, my love."

He knelt before her, his kneepads sinking into the rotting rubbish on the floor. He grasped her feet with his hands, kissing her filth-smeared shoes. "You were there, my love – so beautiful, so fair. You were sharp with me – sharp like a sting. Your words were venom – but I knew, I knew you loved me too. How could you not? They treated you so badly – they would never have made you a queen, never have offered you this." He held his hand out, his psychic concentration palpable, and a writhing mass of maggots wormed their way out of the chambers in the throne into his palm. "Look, my love," he breathed, showing them to her. "What jewels can compare to these?"

Dana clutched at her mouth, fighting against the urge to vomit. She lost the struggle, throwing up her sushi-and-three-martini lunch with a convulsive heave. Sumner beamed and danced with joy. "You feed our subjects, my queen!" he exclaimed. "From your own mouth, you feed them! You care for them, as I do – our mutual love shall . . ." He stopped abruptly, cocking his head as if listening. "The Judges are here!" he exclaimed. "The Swarm has millions of eyes and naught hides from us! But do not fear, my love!" he assured her, squelching through the garbage to the door, "we are safe here!" He ordered his gunmen inside, stationing the horror-struck perps around the room as guards. "The Judges shall pay for their temerity!" he promised her.

**A/n :** I don't think there is anything in this chapter that needs explaining – but, if you feel there is, why not ask it when you write your review? I mean, you were going to review, _right_? Box is right there – just tell me what you think! I always reply and I always return the review love!


	8. Big Drokking Heroes

**Prog 8 : Big Drokking Heroes**

Harmon struggled into the sting-proof oversuit as he drove, eagerly speeding down crowded and chaotic streets with lights flashing and sirens wailing. He was driving dangerously, too-excited to pay attention to his speed, signals, or other cars on the crowded and chaotic streets as overstretched Judges pacified riots and demonstrations. Judge Hershey had called him – _him_, personally, Officer Thomas Harmon of animal control – to help take-down a dangerous perp and rescue a female hostage. The Judges needed _his_ expertise, the poor girl needed _him_ to rush to her aid. He gripped the steering wheel tighter and pushed his foot more firmly to the floorboards, ignoring the honking of horns and squeals of brakes around him. No time for any of that; he had to get there in time!

The four Judges had just arrived outside the condemned hab-block and were dismounting from their bikes when the animal control van howled around the corner in a scream and tires, painting thick scars of burned rubber on the asphalt. Quartermain had pulled her notepad from her belt and was already scribbling traffic violations on it when Harmon mounted the curb and crashed into a rusting street sign, kicking the door open and leaping out without switching off the engine. "Officer Harmon reporting for duty!" he exclaimed with a flashy salute. "Animal control is _always_ ready to assist fellow members of the Justice Department in protecting innocent citizens!"

Quartermain drew a very final line under her list and did some quick math, handing the paper to Cornelius. He glanced it, nodded approvingly to show she'd got it right, but crumpled it into his fist as a lesson in practical policework. "'Fellow members of the Justice Department'?" asked Anderson, not-a-little scornfully. The blurred vagueness of Harmon's face seen through the gauze mask of his oversuit crumpled with disappointment. He tapped his auxiliary shoulder flashes.

"It's technically the case," he said, sounding a little affronted. He hauled open the side door of the van and pulled out a large canister with a spray gun connected to it by a hose. He strapped it on his back and tested the pump. "Is the hostage safe?" he asked.

Cornelius raised an eyebrow at Hershey, who shrugged. "I might have told him about Dana," she said, a little apologetically.

"Ready to go, Sir!" exclaimed Harmon. Cornelius grit his teeth and glared at Hershey who at least had the good sense to remain silent. "Statistically speaking, Sir," Harmon said, "females have a heightened phobic response to insects compared to males. I suggest that you and I alone . . ."

"Oh, Dok no," Cornelius decisively told Harmon before any of the women could clock him, "you're staying well outside. What's in that bottle? Give it here."

Harmon clutched the spray gun tightly. "Insecticide," he said shortly. "Kills 'crete-wasps dead on contact – adults, larvae, and eggs. But it's a _highly_ technical piece of equipment, Sir," he said desperately. "If you're not trained in its use, why, you could . . ." He made vague gestures. "Spray . . . _things_ you . . . didn't mean to spray," he finished lamely.

"It's a _water pistol_," said Anderson, now definitely scornful.

"A _highly technical_ water pistol, Ma'am," said Harmon doggedly.

"And I guess you only brought one suit?" Hershey asked. Harmon looked embarrassed.

"Ah, yes; now that you mention it, Ma'am . . . I was in rather a hurry, to get here, you see. The hostage, Ma'am, and . . ." His voice trailed off. "The suit isn't designed to be taken off without destroying it, I'm afraid," he explained sheepishly.

"And it's a highly technical water pistol?" asked Cornelius wearily. Harmon nodded. The Judge made up his mind. "Alright," he said, "follow us in – but stay behind us, no heroics. You're there for the _wasps._ Not perps, not to rescue the hostage – the _wasps_. You let me get shot – is that clear?" Harmon nodded firmly, his hands clenching and unclenching on the spray gun impatiently. Beside him, unnoticed by the others, Quartermain winced. "Hershey," Cornelius said, leading the way inside, "you and I've got point."

oOo

The hab-block – it didn't have a name, just an assigned project number – was smaller than most but designed to house about the average. It was cramped, crowded and brutal; a squat, square block of gray 'crete unbroken by window or decoration. The Judges advanced through the foyer quickly – it was deserted, but also miniscule by the standards of such things, and securing it took mere moments. The corridors were narrow, the ceilings oppressively low – Cornelius actually had to crouch to get through the doorways – and every single surface was the smooth, bland, depressingly-repetitive khaki-gray of poured rockcrete. The grim weight of psychic ennui oppressed Anderson the instant she entered, the grinding malaise of depression, futility and grim utility ground into the very fabric of the building. Coupled with the deafening psionic buzz caused by the nearness of the Swarm, the static smeared her psynses like watercolors in the rain – she could tell the Lord of the Flies was in the building, but exactly where eluded her.

So the Judges went old school – advancing step-by-step and junction-by-junction through the building, securing rooms, corridors and apartments with textbook precision. They were not there to raid the criminals who had made the hab-block their hideouts and homes, of course – but the perps didn't know that. They fought a running battle against the black-and-bronze, gunfire and screams echoing down the hallways as the Judges brought the order of The Law to a place that had long-ago abandoned it.

Their goal was not, of course, to kill – had that been the case, Cornelius would have just ordered Quartermain to cut indiscriminately loose with the blockrocker rather than assigning her to surgical support-and-suppression; 9mm rounds would make munceburger of anyone caught in the full-auto hailstorm. The goal wasn't even truly law-enforcement – they weren't there to arrest the perps, but rather interrogate them for information that would lead them to the Lord of the Flies. But to do that they had to take a perp alive, something the gunbattles didn't make easy. They managed it after the fifth firefight.

"Where do you dump your garbage?" demanded Cornelius. The prisoner, his Spark-ravaged eyes crossed as they tried to focus on the lawgiver pointed at his face, gaped and gawped. "I asked you a question, creep," Cornelius said meaningfully, tightening his steeltrap grip around the perp's throat.

The ganger coughed and choked, saliva drooling from his lips, trying to speak. Cornelius dropped him – he collapsed to the floor, slumping over. "We just toss it down the chutes, man!" he exclaimed. "I dunno where it goes!" Cornelius glanced at Anderson, her hands busy with the blueprints.

"This place is a drokking pigsty," she opined. It was obvious she wasn't talking about the trash and filth in the corridors – while disgusting, it was so par-for-the-course for a gang-haunted derelict hab-block it wasn't worth remarking on – but rather the design for the building itself. "The garbage chutes just drop into a room in the basement, that's it. No processing, no seals, it just . . . _sits_ there, rotting, until someone shovels it out." She gave a convulsive shudder. "Urgh! Spugging credit-clipping grabby-handed bigot . . ." she muttered.

Cornelius hauled the perp upright, grabbing his chin and pointing his face at a hole in the wall. "That a garbage chute?" he asked. The perp nodded, the flabby play in his slack cheeks letting his bones move under the flesh. "Judge assault, possession of an illegal firearm, gang membership, littering," said Cornelius automatically. "Eighteen years aggregate." He shoved him against the wall, zip-tying his wrists to a galvanized pipe encrusted with calcium deposits. He glanced down the corridor – Quartermain was stationed at the junction, her blockrocker's mags taped together jungle-style. She stuck the barrel of the gun out, peering around the corner and letting off a quick three-round bust before ducking back. Bullets whined down the corridor, whipping through where her head had been instants before.

"Down the chute, let her cover our rear?" asked Hershey.

Cornelius nodded, reaching behind his hip for his climbing gear. He fitted the self-seating barbed spike into the barrel of his gun. "Piton," he ordered, bracing his shoulders and driving the anchor into the wall above the hole with a sharp _krak!_ He uncoiled the 500-lb test monofilament line and dropped it down the chute. He beckoned at Harmon. "Gimmie the spray," he ordered. Harmon shook his head.

"You need me there, Judge," he said. "I'll go down with you." Cornelius weighed his options – if there were nothing down there but Sumner and his wasps, Harmon wouldn't be in danger. If the Lord of the Flies had gunmen with him, however, there'd be a firefight . . . and Cornelius couldn't afford to be distracted by faffing about with what _might_ be a highly technical piece of equipment. "Trust me," Harmon assured him, "I've been in worse situations – one time, in the sewers, there was this rad-gator with . . ."

"Alright." Cornelius cut him off. "But _no heroics_ – let us handle anything that doesn't buzz or sting, okay?" Harmon nodded. Cornelius pulled the line towards him, clipping an arrester handle onto it. "Cassie, you and Hershey . . ."

He got no further before a writhing fountain of wasps boiled out of the chute, filling the corridor in seconds. He flinched back, instinctively slapping at the burning stabs of pain punching through his uniform. Harmon pulled the trigger on his gun, spraying insecticide around the corridor and over the Judges. He stepped forward and jammed the nozzle into the hole, pumping chemicals down the chute. He looked down the shaft, grunting with satisfaction at what he saw – it was sloped rather than vertical, slick and slimy with unidentified muck. Before anyone could do anything even vaguely sensible like stop him he'd done something decidedly _not_-sensible and dived head-first into the hole, spraying insecticide ahead of him as he slipped and slid down the greasy chute on his belly.

"No heroics!" exclaimed Cornelius. "Did I not say no heroics? That's, like, at least _two_ heroics! That's two more heroics than I wanted!" He grabbed for his respirator and slammed it in place, pushing the line aside and diving down the chute himself. His arms formed a plow in front of him, digging through the muck and sending it splashing into his face in a spray of filth. His visor was smeared opaque in seconds, his face plastered with it, rotting slime working its way into every nook and cranny of his uniform. Even through the respirator he could smell the sickly-sweet stench of fermenting garbage; he held his breath and tried to keep his gun clear of the slime so it wouldn't foul.

He couldn't see and so had no warning when he reached the bottom of the chute, tumbling as he landed on a pile of garbage. He rolled to his feet, trash shifting under his boots, and tore his helmet off so he could see. He took the situation in at a glance – the mouldering mounds of rubbish with their glistening skin of fungus, the alien architecture of the hexagonal hives drooping from the ceiling, the air thick and heavy with a hot haze of spores and insects, the gunmen carefully positioned to cover all possible lines of fire, the crazy and his hostage on the other side of the stinking room, she cowering on some kind of throne, he incandescent with rage. "You come to my palace and poison my subjects?" Sumner howled. "Your death will be one long scream!"

Harmon had face-planted when he hit, landing in a particularly disgusting-looking puddle of something best left unidentified, surrounded by an acrid lake of foaming insecticide in which a myriad of wasp corpses floated. He struggled to his feet. "Don't worry, citizen!" he yelled, presumably at Dana. "The Justice Department is here to save you!" He sprayed wildly; insects fell like rain, twitching in their death throes.

Cornelius crouched, seeking cover in the undulating dunes of garbage, and fired. Two of the yellow-and-black clad gunmen dropped, weapons tumbling from limp hands as bullets whined past. Behind him, Harmon was hit and cried out, tumbling to the ground. Angrily muttering "I told you to let _me_ get shot!" Cornelius leaped up and dived toward him, intending to grab him and drag him into what little cover there was.

A bullet struck him in the chest under his outstretched right arm, spinning him in the air. It didn't penetrate the armor, but the impact hit like a jackhammer, a sickening wet snap of razor-edged pain telling him at least one rib was broken. He crashed to the ground beside Harmon, his lungs empty, the taste of blood thick in his mouth. _Not good_.

Hershey slid down the chute – she'd dropped feet first, using the line to slow her descent, so she landed with an easy flex of her knees, her lawgiver spitting death. Another gunman dropped, but then Hershey yelped and stumbled backwards, successive waves of wasps battering her. She lost her footing on the garbage and slipped, landing on her behind in the slimy fungus, her gun falling from her hand and sinking into the rotting mire beneath her.

Cornelius tried to stand, gasping for oxygen. He doubled-over like a lobster split live as pressure and pain circled his chest, hacking and coughing up bloody-froth. Moving his right arm was agony, his vision blurring at the edges and nausea twisting his guts as he struggled to breathe. He knew the signs – broken ribs, punctured lung, internal haemorrhage. _Definitely _not good, especially in the middle of a firefight with Hershey disarmed. Gritting his teeth against the pain he grabbed Harmon, hauling him backwards into the relative shelter of a depression in the garbage.

The Lord of the Flies cackled madly. "Foolish Judges!" he screamed. "The doors are locked – you are trapped in here!" He turned his attention to Anderson; the psi had just come down the shaft, her hands empty and her head bare, her concentration palpable in the enclosed space. Around her, the air seemed to still and chill with the frosty precision of her mind. "Your powers are useless now!" he exclaimed. "The Swarm is angered – you have trespassed in its domain! They do not need me to guide them – they will kill you all!"

Hershey let herself slide down the slope of garbage, coming to rest next to Cornelius and Harmon. Automatic fire raked the lip of the depression they were cowering in. Cornelius was on his knees, taking left-handed potshots at the perps. He was reeling, gasping for breath with bloody-foam gathering at the corners of his mouth. Harmon had only been winged – a superficial graze across his thigh – and with the unaccustomed flood of adrenaline he barely felt it. A sudden realization of his destiny overwhelmed him; with Cornelius seriously injured and Hershey being, well, a woman herself it was obviously up to _him_ to save the damsel in distress. "Cover me!" he exclaimed, struggling out of his harness and discarding the canister so it didn't slow him down. "I'm coming, citizen!" he cried, leaping to his feet and running towards Dana.

There was nothing Hershey could do to stop him – the wasps were still attacking her, and he at least was protected by his special suit. She grabbed the insecticide and frantically sprayed, trying to create a safe haven from the stinging menace. It wasn't, by any stretch of the imagination, a highly technical piece of equipment – it was a simple trigger and a twist-to-select nozzle. She sprayed in a wide arc, harsh chemicals plastering her uniform and dripping off her hair. Beside her, Cornelius was wavering, his skin ashen and face slack. Pinned down, it was only a matter of time before bullets punched through their flimsy cover and found them.

Anderson was distractingly-aware of Cornelius' injury, the agonizing flare of his determination a beautiful heartbreak she could not allow herself the luxury of dwelling on. Resolutely, she pushed her compassion aside and focused on the task at hand. She knew Sumner was right – that blocking his communication with the Swarm would do no good; the wasps were enraged by the trespass and would attack the intruders instinctively, stinging until they were dead. She reached out, taking the measure of the link, psynsing the connection Sumner and the Swarm shared.

She plunged into the Lord of the Flies' mind; it was too alien for her to quickly decipher, too connected with the hive-mind of the Swarm for her to easily influence. Most of the flavor of his thoughts was not human . . . but there was one thing that was. Atrophied and shallow it might have been, but it was a recognizable emotion, lying within her experience. It was his affection for Dana, his desire for her to be his queen, the ruler of the Swarm as he was.

The Swarm did not understand 'love', of course – but it understood command, and gender, and the rule of the fertile feminine over sterile sisters and lazy drones. _Of course_, she realized with a smile as Harmon reached Dana, struggling with the irate Sumner over the girl, _of course_.

She poured her mind into Sumner's, not trying to block his powers but rather enhancing them, turning the torch of his psyche into a flamethrower. He staggered drunkenly, intoxicated by the sudden surge of mental potency. While he was still reeling, Anderson focused their combined energies on his desire for Dana, searing her identity as queen onto the Swarm through his connection to it. _This is your queen!_ the imperative howled. _She you will obey! She is the commander, the ruler, the mind of you all! Her commands are law, her whims your passions, her survival yours! What she wants, you will do!_

"Unhand her majesty!" Sumner bellowed – Anderson's psychic surgery had increased his desire for her tenfold. Enraged, he slugged Harmon. The animal control officer slumped against the throne, he and Dana tangled in each other's arms. "You cannot separate us! She wishes to be with me!"

"I wanna go home!" howled Dana, sobbing furiously. "I don't wanna be here! _I don't want you!_"

When describing emotions, Anderson often struggled to find words others would understand and which accurately conveyed their potent reality. Heat was a popular metaphor – sparks, flames, fire, _inferno_. If that were the metaphor, then Dana's terror and horror and despair were a sector-wide conflagration, a burning holocaust visible from orbit. It engulfed Anderson, resonating within her own psyche, shaking loose memories and searing through her shields.

She opened herself to it, blanking her mind, letting the inferno of Dana's panic wash through her psyche like flames through a chimney – howling, burning, but directed and barely touching the sides. Anderson poured it into Sumner's mind and – through him – into the Swarm.

Something shifted in the heady, enclosed, sweltering hive – Anderson could psynse the change in the tin-tasting mind of the Swarm. The queen – the fertile feminine they all obeyed – was threatened, terrified for her life. The survival of the Swarm was the survival of the queen – they could all die without cost if only she lived. And she had identified the threat to the Swarm.

_Sumner_.

As one, the Swarm descended on him in a solid mass, covering his body in a thick writhing carpet of warning-banded bodies and buzzing wings. He howled inarticulately as he was stung again and again and again, thousands of wasps injecting venom into every inch of his flesh. Mentally connected to him, sympathetic envenomed agony slashed through Anderson's mind, driving her to her knees with a scream of pain, clutching futility at her head. Dana screamed too, flailing her hands and hiding her eyes so she did not have to see the mangling of Sumner's body, torn apart as it was ravaged by thousands of barbed needles.

The Swarm didn't let up – it held him there, a twitching marionette of venom-swollen meat kept upright by the sheer mass of insects clinging to it. Harmon grabbed Dana and – his own personal theme-song swelling in his mind – swept her off her feet and into his arms, running across the room in great strides. The effect was rather spoiled as he slipped on the fungal slime, his feet sliding out from under him and the two of them collapsing into the garbage.

Three gunmen advanced on Cornelius and Hershey's position, three-round bursts of suppressive fire forcing them to keep their heads down. The perps probably needn't have bothered – Hershey's weapon was deadly only to wasps and Cornelius so lightheaded his best shots were missing. They reached the edge of the depression and grinned triumphantly as they aimed at the helpless Judges.

Behind them, the door burst open, its lock blown by a breaching charge. Grim-faced, holding the blockrocker at her hip, Quartermain raked the gangbangers across the kidneys with a full clip. At close range the effect was devastating; they fell to the ground, cut in half at the waists as if by a steel whip. She shucked the taped magazines, spinning them in her hand and slamming the opposite end home even as Hershey scrambled out of cover. "Gun!" she ordered.

Left handed, Quartermain tossed the blockrocker in a flat spin towards Hershey, already snap-drawing her lawgiver with her right. While the LSW was still in the air, she'd put a bullet into a perp's chest, dropping him before he could draw a bead on her. Hershey caught the submachine gun, she and Quartermain cutting down the remaining perps with carefully-controlled bursts.

Hershey ran forward, dragging Harmon and Dana to their feet. Her face was thunder and the poor animal control officer flinched from her. "I'm sorry, Judge . . ." he began.

Hershey shook her head in exasperation. "Stow it, you nutter," she said without malice, shoving the two of them towards the door. Clinging together, Harmon and Dana stumbled through the trash as quickly as they could.

She glanced behind her – Quartermain had reached Cornelius and was helping him scramble out of the hollow in the trash. He turned back to Anderson – the psi was on her knees, knocked there by pain she couldn't comprehend. She ran forward, grabbing her and helping her up as Harmon and Dana struggled through the door. "Come on!" she said. "Gotta go!" Anderson shoved her away, shaking her head and drawing her lawgiver.

Cornelius was staggering, his chest an ocean of pain, his vision gray. He slipped and stumbled on the unstable garbage, falling to one knee and dropping his gun. Quartermain made up her mind and – trying not to think about just _how much_ six-foot-four of solid muscle in full Street-kit weighed – holstered her lawgiver and bent her knees to get her shoulders under his hips. Drunkenly, he shook his head. "I c'n make it," he slurred. "Too big for you, anyway." He took a stride up the slope. His other foot slipped, sending him pitching forward to land across her shoulders.

The impact drove her to her knees and knocked his badge loose. It splattered face-down in the garbage, exactly as he would have done if she hadn't been there. With trembling fingers, she retrieved his badge and gun, magnetizing the pistol to her own armor and clipping the scarred shield to her belt. She settled his semi-conscious bulk – if not morecomfortably at least less _uncomfortably_ – across her shoulders and wove her arm between his legs in the fireman's lift, grabbing his massive wrist with a vice-like grip. She grit her teeth and straightened her back, her thighs screaming at her as she unbent her knees. "You ain't heavy," she grunted, mantra-like, as she lurched with trembling determination towards the door, "you're my _oppa_."

The wasps were still clinging to Sumner's body, a pulsing bivouac of insects still following the echoes of instincts, but Anderson knew that would change in seconds. With the Lord of the Flies dead and his mind destroyed, they would soon revert to their natural behavior. They would protect their hive and _true_ queen from the invaders. "Incendiary," she ordered through gritted teeth, and fired.

The phosphorous shell detonated as it hit the writhing mass of wasps, splattering them with burning gobbets of chemical fire. The swarm flew apart instantly, not only blown by the wind of hot gasses, but individual insects frantically trying to get away from the scorching heat. But it was too late – their wings caught, exoskeletons popping open as moist innards vaporized and expanded, cracking their banded bodies. Hershey grabbed Anderson once again and the two of them sprinted for the door. The air was thick with smoke from the burning trash, pockets of methane detonating like grenades. The two Judges dived through the door, throwing themselves to the ground as the fire reached critical mass, a broiling tide of flame rolling along the ceiling like an inverted sunset ocean. With a great hollow boom, the doors to the basement room slammed shut, shoved closed by the outward rush of hot air.

Wearily, grateful for the clean, dry air outside the festering hive and the refreshing coldness of the poured 'crete floor beneath her, Hershey rolled over onto her back. Anderson was already on her feet, hastening towards where Quartermain had set down Cornelius. The rugged carry over the shifting dunes of garbage hadn't helped his condition and his skin was deathly pale, his head hanging, wheezing in his chest as he blew bloody-bubbles with every shallow breath. Quartermain had her bootknife out and was systematically sawing through the straps of his armor web with the serrated edge on the rear of the blade. "Medi-Teks to my GPS, immediate!" Anderson frantically ordered. "Judge down!"

Quartermain sliced his fatigues open, freeing his chest from the constricting leather, pushing him down so he lay on his wounded side. Anderson looked at her as if she were mad and actually tried to sit him up, but Quartermain shook her head. "Trust me," she croaked, her voice barely a whisper. "Know what to do 'bout punctured lung. Asked the docs in the hospital."

Anderson glared at her, cradling Cornelius' head in her hands so it didn't have to lie on the dirty 'crete of the floor. He certainly seemed to be breathing more easily, his unwounded lung having more room to expand. "You _knew_ this was going to happen?" she shrieked. "You knew, and you didn't _tell_ anyone?"

Quartermain shook her head – she knew Anderson was overwrought, but Cornelius meant _just_ as much to her and the implication hurt worse than her throat. She swallowed painfully before whispering, "Doesn't always work like that – just get the notion. Anyway," she asked, her voice cracking, "would it have stopped him?"

Anderson wasn't mollified. "You were ordered to guard our rear!" she snapped. "If he dies . . ."

"I guess she must have heard 'save our asses'." Hershey's voice was cool and calming, but quick and crisp enough to cut off any further outburst. She was standing guard over the psis huddled protectively around Cornelius, the blockrocker held tightly to her body, her eyes scanning the corridor. "Good work, Cadet," she said without irony, "look for a commendation in your record. He's gonna live?"

Quartermain nodded. "Yes, Ma'am," she whispered with certainty. "And thank you, Ma'am."

Hershey looked over at Harmon – clutching at his wounded thigh, but flushed with his success – and Dana – alive and rescued, fawning over her savior. "Perps're dead, city's safe, hostage's freed, and no-one's going to resyk," she said with a wry grin. "Dunno how PsiDiv slices it, but – in sector two – we call that a win."

**A/n :** I have had this chapter written for ten days – seriously! And I wasn't happy with it, and I went back and forth with it, editing it and cutting it up and reworking it. I am still not 100% happy with it – but I just wanted to get it done.

Frankly, there were times in Bee-Movie when I just didn't think it was working – I just didn't like it _at all_. But, thanks to JudgeTrask, Khayr and "anon" I was encouraged – seriously, I think this story has got more positive feedback than any other Dreddfic I've written!

Just goes to show what I know, huh?

The action here was, once again, rather silly and over-the-top – it's not a serious thing. This is a guy who looks like Sting controlling wasps while an animal control officer with delusions of heroism tries to impress a bimbo secretary. It is hardly serious drama! But, the comics were often like that.

Once again, I have broken the chapter up – yes, what was going to be one chapter is three! This is the "end of the action" - really, this is where the story would end if it were a comic. Perp's dead, city's safe, we know our hero will recover.

But . . . well, we all like some feels, right?

Maybe we do, maybe we don't. But you're going to get them! The next (last) chapter isn't essential for the story – but you might enjoy it.

Please – leave a review saying what you thought, and (if you are so minded) read what happens afterwards in the next chapter!


	9. Gajog

**Prog 9 : _Gajog_**

"Can I wake him?"

The nurse with the pretty pink-and-white doll's face checking the chart at the end of the hospital bed looked up, her autumn-hazel eyes curious beneath the ragged fringe of her butterscotch hair. "Well, there's no medical reason for him to be asleep," she admitted, "but I don't think you'll be able . . ." Her voice trailed off as Anderson slipped her hand into his, her slender fingers enveloped in his massive digits. The cold, brutal, taciturn mask lying on the pillow stirred awake, warmth and compassion flooding through it. Gold-flecked eyes opened and chiseled lips curled into a smile as his head rolled to face her.

"Cassie," he murmured sleepily, his hand squeezing hers. He blinked once or twice, consciousness and clarity coming back.

The nurse gave a disbelieving smile. "You two must be _really_ close," she said.

Cornelius ran the pad of his thumb gently along Anderson's finger – it was only the second time he'd touched her naked flesh; like the first, he was lying injured with her worrying, woken from unconsciousness by the gentle caress of her mind. He didn't feel like explaining it all to the nurse, even if he could have done. "She's my boss," he said.

The nurse smiled brightly, glancing at the lifesigns' monitor by the side of the bed. "Well," she said, pressing the button to summon a robodoc, "you've got a good one – she barely left your side since they brought you in. Would have been in the operating theater if they'd let her."

Cornelius raised an eyebrow and looked at Anderson, who blushed and avoided his gaze. "You're a useful asset," she muttered unconvincingly.

"Hmm." He didn't press the issue, probably because he was guiltier than she of anything he might accuse her of. "How bad was it?" he asked the nurse.

"Broken ribs and a punctured lung," she said, "along with extensive thoracic bleeding and some garden-variety contusions. One rib was repaired with bone staples, the other was too fragmented; the surgeon replaced it with osteoceramic. There'll be some swelling and pain for a day or two, but you should have the full range of motion." She watched with a diagnostic eye as he moved his arm and inhaled deeply.

If it hurt he gave no sign. "I'm free to be discharged?" he asked.

The nurse rolled her eyes. "I know better than to try to keep you here," she said darkly, her voice world-weary with experience. "Doc will likely clear you for active duty within forty-eight hours," she added bitterly.

On cue, a robodoc rolled through the door. It was a mismatched mechanical grotesque; a legless torso mounted on a wheeled cylindrical base with a white labcoat draped over several multiple-joined spindly arms like a Kansas flaylord would wear its victim's skin. A blandly-disquieting plastic mask was stuck to the front of its cranial module, the number of actuators under the skin insufficient to lift it out of the uncanny valley. It flopped its lips out of sync with its voice synthesizer as it spoke; "Judge Cornelius, John R, Psi Division – how are you feeling? I am here to perform the discharge exam." It brandished probe-tipped appendages and advanced on him, its expressionless 'face' staring a thousand yards past his shoulder.

Anderson didn't move away, actually drawing closer to him and clutching his hand with both of hers. Cornelius gave her fingers a comforting squeeze – privately, he wondered if the illusion of demon-possessed cybernetic body-horror wasn't a deliberate attempt by the robotics division to encourage Judges to leave the medical wing as quickly as possible. Still, at least they were getting the pronunciation of his Division right; he could almost hear his mother telling him to be thankful for small mercies in her own vowel-mangling accent. "Thanks," he said without conviction.

The robodoc pushed, prodded and poked, pressing probes against his skin and plugging itself into the lifesigns' monitor. Its dead-fish eyes stared blindly past him as internal mechanisms clicked and whirred. Rather than simply remain silent as it processed the data and logged it in the central database, it reached into its magazine of conversational gambits. "Is your preferred sports team scoring sufficient points to achieve victory?" it asked.

"They have been sporting very hard, but the other teams also sported well, and so we will need to sport more to succeed at sports," said Cornelius dryly. He was rewarded by both Anderson and the nurse bursting into laughter, their hands identically lifted to hide wide pink smiles.

Something clicked inside the robodoc and it abruptly disengaged from the terminal and its patient. "Judge Cornelius, John R, Psi Division – discharge from the medical wing okay-okay." A printed whirled and a justice-blue form popped out from its base. "You are not cleared for active duty until authorization by MedDiv personnel," it told him. "Abstain from alcohol, strenuous exercise and sexual activity for forty-eight hours."

"Well, there goes the weekend," muttered Anderson, shaking her head. Surgeons and prescribing doctors in the medical wing were, in the main, robodocs – dedicated quasi-intelligent nodes slaved to the central MedDiv database, their decisions supervised and approved by a small cadre of Med-Judges. The robots' sophisticated programming and immunity to fatigue, emotion, and nausea meant the technical perfection of the medical care was second to none, but their bedside manner inevitably left a lot to be desired. It was only because of the tireless work of nurses like the one attending to Cornelius the medical wing managed to rise above the chamber of horrors it could so easily have become.

The robodoc snatched the discharge paperwork from the slot with a pair of forceps, thrusting it towards Cornelius with a motion like lancing a boil. He jerked the form from its gleaming steel pincer and watched, disquieted, as it left the room by the simple expedient of rolling backwards. It wouldn't have been so bad, but the designers had tried – and failed – to make its movements appear more human by programming it to face the direction it was going. It accomplished this by rotating its 'head' smoothly through 180 degrees on its neck at the perfect speed to inspire nightmares.

"Best argument for staying healthy I know," Anderson remarked, perhaps picking up on Cornelius' thought from earlier. He laughed and disengaged his hand from hers, pushing down on the bed to shove himself up into a sitting position. He managed, but winced as he did. The nurse started forward, she and Anderson helping him get his feet onto the floor and stand stiffly upright, the sheets sliding off him. The nurse didn't seem affected by his near-nudity in a pair of very brief athletic shorts, bandages and nothing else but Anderson felt a flush of warmth thrill through her core at the proximity of his presence and bulk, his warmth and scent, the scar-crossed hairy musculature of his massive torso, shoulders and biceps . . .

"You okay?" asked the nurse.

Anderson started, turning away and busying herself with the clean uniform she'd brought for him. "Oh, yes," she said brightly, "just fine."

The nurse raised a single eyebrow, taking the duffelbag from Anderson and setting it on the bed, pulling out the packet of underwear and tearing it open. "I was talking to him," she said dryly. She flicked her head at the door. "Wait outside, I'll help him get dressed. Don't worry," she added, addressing both of them with a professional smile, "I've seen it all and more."

A pang of something she didn't want to recognize as jealousy speared Anderson, and she managed to stop herself from asking _in the general or the particular?_ She nodded and left, stopping briefly at the door to turn and look back. The nurse was helping Cornelius into the tight black J-Dept standard-issue uniform undershirt. Anderson realized she'd never got her name, and told herself she reached into her mind only to find it so she could thank her personally later. She was a focused pillar of professionalism, concerned with nothing more than getting him dressed, making him well, and easing his pain. Embarrassment – perhaps at her own concerns, perhaps at what she'd mentally accused the nurse of – welled up inside her. "He likes to wear a Tutor's T-shirt," she called. The nurse turned, her face carefully neutral. "Under his fatigues," she explained. "I brought one – side pocket." She didn't wait for a response, instead stepping out into the corridor and letting the door swing shut behind her.

Outside of the calm of the private room her clearance had managed to get for Cornelius, the medical wing was a hive of activity – she smiled grimly at the word, feeling the welts from the stings itch anew. With the city engulfed in riots and demonstrations, a violent crime-wave directed as much against the Department as it was the victims of lawlessness, the hospital was at capacity or beyond – every bed contained an injured Judge, others lying on gurneys or sitting on chairs in the corridors. Judges had a high tolerance for pain, but even so the wing was filled with cries of anguish and repeated alarms from call-buttons that went unheeded for far too long. To Anderson's psynses, of course, it was all far worse.

She shuddered, concentrating on her mental shields. With Psi Division's secured facilities beneath the medical wing, she should have got used to the constant grind of pain, grief and despair – but she never did. Part of her hoped she never would – being affected by the agony of wounded Judges, the fractured sobbing of their widowed partners, the constant, low-grade migraine of the nurses' frustrated futility at dealing with the casualties of a city-wide war reminded her she was still, despite everything, human.

The imagery she'd used reminded her. She pulled the bottle of pills from her belt and looked about – the robodoc, or one identical to it – was a few yards away, trundling down the corridor. She jogged after it, calling, "Doc! Wait up!"

It probably was the same one – it was rolling backwards, its head facing the wrong way. It stopped as she addressed it, rotating on its castors and at the same time turning its head so it ended up still facing away from her. It continued to spin various parts of itself through a couple more rotations as it scanned her implanted RFID chip and verified her identity, finally managing to get both its head and body pointing towards her. "Judge Anderson, Cassandra J, Psi Division," it intoned. "How are you feeling?" It twitched its head as it accessed its small-talk subroutines – apparently, there was a specific set for females that did not involve sports. "Would you like to receive spoilers about a Brit-Cit imported costume drama currently airing on public television, or would that reduce your enjoyment?"

She held up the painkillers. "Can I get a refill of these?" she asked. The robodoc took the nearly-empty bottle and scanned the barcode with the laser-reader in its left eye.

"This is a controlled medication and no prescription is currently on file," it told her. "Can you describe your symptoms? Would you like to schedule an examination? There may be other options to manage your pain. What are your thoughts on the social stratification appearing in your costume drama of choice?"

Anderson snatched the bottle back. "Thanks," she said insincerely. "I'm good." She should have known better than to expect a robot would hook her up – she'd go talk to a human doctor, someone she could persuade without answering so many prying questions.

She turned as she felt the flavor of Cornelius' chivalry dent her mind – he was holding the door open for the nurse, who was smiling as she ducked under his outstretched arm into the corridor. Anderson caught her eye and was halfway through calling "Thank you," and pressing gratitude into the surface of her psyche when the pager at her hip beeped and lights flashed high on the walls.

"_Code Twelve-Blue, multiple casualties, gate C._" The jargon was incomprehensible, but the effect immediate – the nurse and others broke into a sprint, Anderson jumping clear just in time. The psi watched them go, wishing she could do more to help. She shook her head as Cornelius came to stand beside her – to each his own when it came to serving the city.

It wasn't just the lack of armor web that made Cornelius look underdressed. "Where're my badge and gun?" he asked. "And what did I miss?"

"Jackie," said Anderson brightly, answering both questions. "She picked you and them up – you don't remember?" He looked uncertain – she could taste the fuzzy vagueness of his memories. "She's got them secured on _Aegis_." She led the way towards the elevator, slowly out of concern for his injuries. "And she was there with me for most of it – she left just before you came to."

"Hmm," remarked Cornelius. "Probably knew I was going to wake up and decided she didn't need to see it."

Anderson gave a slightly-sickly smile – it was perhaps best to let him think that. She and the younger psi had much to talk silently about during their vigil outside the operating theater and at his bedside. Anderson had apologized, of course, but so had Quartermain – retracting her opinion Cornelius meant as much to her as he did to Anderson. She'd stood to leave, shaking her head as Anderson urged her to stay. "You should see him come 'round," she'd croaked, speaking with her voice for the first time. "I'll be on _Aegis_."

That, of course, had been why she'd woken him then – as impossible as it sounded, she did not want to be alone with her thoughts. But now they returned to her, unbidden – just what _did_ he mean to her, and she to him? Were her motivations pure and judicial? Were his?

She sighed – she didn't want to think about it. She reached out with her mind and dropped a suggestion into his, the merest touch to tip his thoughts in that direction. "Perps rounded up?" he asked. Gratefully, she nodded.

"The ones that didn't get slabbed at least," she said. The elevator came, the doors opening with a ding. They stepped inside, Anderson pressing her gauntlet to the control panel to authorize travel to the roof. "Tek-Div and J-CoE are still scanning buildings, but they're confident they'll locate and repair everything. The remaining wasps have hibernated for the Winter – animal control will relocate them when they swarm in the Spring."

"Any news on _Manta_?"

Anderson grinned. "Brufen's managed to spin it positively – quite a politician, that one. We should watch him. He told HoJ the crash-landing provided important data it would have been impossible to get otherwise. She's being repaired and upgraded based on that information. Brufen estimates she'd grounded for a week."

Cornelius nodded. "What about Dana?" he asked. "She okay?"

"She was in the room next to you for a while," Anderson said. "Harmon wouldn't leave her side, of course – I think he's sweet on her." Cornelius rolled his eyes.

"Well, you didn't need to be Jackie to see that one coming," he remarked dryly. Anderson laughed.

"She's okay – nothing physically wrong with her. Soon as the psych boys gave her the once over they let her go – she and Harmon went to the pound. She wants a puppy," Anderson explained in response to his puzzled look. "He's smoothing over the paperwork for a permit. One of the lawyers from the architecture firm came around – preemptive strike, I think, but Hershey was there. Based on her advice, Dana's quit her job and is suing."

Cornelius chuckled. "Let me guess," he said, "sexual harassment?"

"And the rest," said Anderson. "Hershey's hearing the case, and also fast-tracking her citizen-auxiliary application – Harmon's trying to get her a job as a secretary at animal control."

The elevator reached the roof and they stepped out into the cold, bright sunshine a fifth of a mile above the city's streets. _Aegis_ hovered a a few dozen yards away from the building, tethered to a docking spike and with an enclosed gangway connecting the gondola to the roof. "Hershey's playing match-maker?" Cornelius asked. "Doesn't seem like her."

"I think she feels guilty," Anderson said simply.

Cornelius shrugged. "Dunno what what for," he said guilelessly.

"I think you're supposed to," Anderson said meaningfully. "She asked me to apologize, tell you it was good working with you. I didn't ask for details."

"Hmm." Cornelius was non-committal. "I'm guessing you're letting her grab credit for the collar?"

Anderson gave an empty-handed gesture. "Meh," she said as if such things bored her, "my star's high enough. And," she added craftily, "it's good to be owed a favor by someone who's got an in with the heavy-bronze."

Cornelius chuckled, coughing a little and gingerly touching his side as he did. Anderson looked at him with concern, but he brushed it off. "Just what I was thinking . . . but you knew that, right?" he added with a grin. She demurred but didn't deny it. "So . . ." His voice darkened. "Jackie waited by my bedside."

"She did," admitted Anderson. "She cares about you – _oppa_." He gave an awkward laugh.

"_You_ don't call me _oppa_, Cassie," he chided her. "You're my boss."

"I don't call you _seonbae_," she corrected him. Her smirked at his surprised expression. "What? You think I _didn't_ pick Nick's brains about the correct terminology?" She left it vague as to whether she meant that literally. "And, technically speaking, while I'm older . . ." He voice trailed off as the pieces fell into place in her own mind; so _that_ was it. "Sometimes a girl just wants to be a . . . a _dongsaeng_. You know?"

He looked down at her. This close to him, worried about his injury, she could not help but be aware of the periphery of his mind. There were thoughts of other women there; dark and powerful like him, with his eyes and hair – family, most likely. Once again, she realized she knew nothing about where he was from. He nodded, and opened the door to _Aegis_ for her. She ducked under his arm like the nurse had done, moving through the rear hold into the squad room.

The crisp, toothsome smell of ecks, tomatoes and fried corn greeted them, along with Quartermain wearing an apron and holding a spatula in one hand. "Can you make coffee, Cassandra?" she asked without preamble. "Nick offered, but he's _terrible_ at it. They drink tea in the NAAF, _apparently_." She grabbed Cornelius' hand. "I made breakfast, Sir!" she exclaimed, pulling him into the squad room. "I know it's a little late, but . . ."

"But nothing, Jackie," he said. "I just woke up – I don't care what the chronometer says, it's breakfast time."

She blushed. "I meant I promised breakfast a couple of days ago, Sir," she explained.

"Ah." He stepped towards the table, lifting the lid of a tureen to peer inside. "Huevos rancheros?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No, Sir," she said. "Huevos pericos." His hand froze and he turned to her. "I called your mother for the recipe, Sir," she said. "And I've got your shield and gun," she added, holding them out.

Cornelius blinked and suddenly seemed to be having as much trouble with his voice as she was. "C'mere, you," he said shortly. Her own eyes brimming with tears she stepped forward, offering the badges of his office to him.

He took them from her and stared at them for a second – she'd cleaned the gun and polished the eagle. He swallowed heavily and tossed them on the table, pulling her close to him. She gave a shuddering sigh and pressed her cheek into his chest, hugging him as tightly as she dared. "I was so _scared_, Sir," she admitted. "I should have been more certain, I should have _said_ something. I'm so _sorry_ . . ."

Cornelius didn't have any words. He bent his neck and pressed his cheek against the top of her head, holding her against him for a second. He let go and she understood, stepping backwards and stiffening into attention. He looked around – Anderson was standing at the doorway, her hands clasped before her and her butcher-blue eyes misting with tears, Betancourt was smiling, and even Brufen looked like he tolerated the unjudicial display.

Cornelius clipped his badge into place, picking up his lawgiver and moving towards his bunk. "Well, don't want to let the eggs get cold," he said lamely. He opened his locker, stowing the gun inside. "Cadet . . ." he called meaningfully. She turned, to see him holding the cartoon drawing and looking at her with a questioning expression. "What shall we do about this?" he asked.

She winced – him choosing to do this _now_ was a cruel blow; knocking her down she was was already wounded. But she was a Cadet and he her designated Tutor – his shield was back in place, the case closed. It was time to take her medicine. "I . . ." she began.

"The refrigerator door is traditional," he continued, as if she hadn't spoken, "but it's not really visible." He pinned it to the noticeboard on the main bulkhead – the bold, bright colors next to grayscale FAXes and printouts meant it dominated the utilitarian room of gunmetal walls and furniture. "There," he said with satisfaction. He looked down at her, giving a little smirking smile. "I'd pick you up," he promised, "but . . ." He gestured at his injuries.

She shook her head. "Don't worry, Sir," she explained. "You just did."

**A/n :** Alright, perhaps too much feels? :)

Well, _I_ had fun writing it – hope you had fun reading it!

"Gajog", "oppa", "seonbae" and "dongsaeng" are Korean – the language doubles as SoAz. They mean "family", "older brother (of a woman)", "senior" and "younger sibling". They are used a lot in the K-pop genre of music, which I have used as a partial-expy for KT-Pop. They help establish the familial relationships between the _Aegis_ team.

This story has been – throughout – about family and friendships, male and female relationships, feminine vulnerability and masculine strength . . . and subversions of that. Our big, tough, macho hero strides through the story with the women looking up to him . . . and spends the final action sequence doing absolutely nothing of any value after he gets hit with a single bullet, and the women save the day! You will notice (at least, I _hope_ you notice!) that Cornelius says in the first chapter he won't carry Quartermain . . . and then physically picks her up at least once in each of the first seven chapters! In the eighth, he is picked up by _her_ and then – in this ninth – we finally get some balance; his "picking up" of her is psychological, raising her spirits and making her feel good about herself.

Like I say, a lot of "feels" here – and I make no apology. The relationship between Cornelius and Anderson (and Quartermain – and everyone, really) needed to be explored, and couldn't stay static. I didn't really "advance" it to romance – rather, Anderson wonders if it is . . . and then realizes (or thinks she realizes? :) ) that its a brother-sister thing. There's emotional movement, but not a lot of travel – if that makes sense?

I made a very deliberate choice – which some might not like – to include _no_ characters (except the nurse and robodoc – who don't get names) but the _Aegis_ crew. The others' stories ended last chapter (and I very much wanted Hershey to just duck out – she just _leaves_ without saying goodbye). As I said in the notes to the last chapter, this chapter isn't essential – it is pretty much just "feels". But, there is an interesting little note vis-a-vis Anderson and her . . . dependencies? which will be important next story.

Yes, another story _will_ be forthcoming – and it's a big shout-out to Rhinne and her excellent story "Shielded".

Watch this space (or follow my profile, I guess!) and don't forget to review! I will be posting the "deleted scenes" I mentioned earlier after this chapter – but this is Bee-movie done and dusted!

Like it? Hate it? Please review and let me know!


	10. Deleted Scenes

_**A/n :** The following scenes were written for "Bee-Movie" but ultimately discarded; for various reasons, they didn't fit and either had to be reworked or completely removed. But, I include them here for completeness' sake – these scenes are, obviously, not canonical._

_o_

_o_

_o_

_The following scene was the opening to chapter five – I discussed in the author's note to that chapter my reasons for making the changes I did. There were three main issues here; Hershey not appearing heroic (so I reversed her position and let Cornelius play Devil's advocate), the "too hot and heavy" interaction between Cornelius &amp; Hershey (which I tweaked) as well as there just being too-much talk from Quartermain (some of her dialog was recycled for the scene with the Chief Judge later on, and given to Cornelius – given that she was written in this scene to be trying to sound explicitly like her mentor, that seemed justifiable)._

"Over five thousand dead or missing. The Nix Tower is destroyed and Henley Plaza is buried under rubble. Several other buildings are heavily damaged and will probably require demolition. Conservative estimate puts the cost of the damage at billions of credits. Power grid is out in sub-sectors five through eight, six has no water. Emergency services are swamped. My Judges are stretched thin – I lost two in the plaza, and looting and riots have broken out."

Sector Chief Fenty turned from where he had been staring out the window of his office, overlooking sector two. In the middle distance, a plume of smoke rose from the ground zero that had been Henley Plaza, the skyline ruined by the Nix Tower's absence like a smile with a knocked-out tooth. He swept his gaze over the assembled Judges and auxiliaries in his office. Hershey stood at attention a little, but deliberately, apart from Psi Division, her helmet tucked under one arm. Harmon stood between them, but closer to the crew of _Aegis_.

"Any _good_ news?" Anderson asked. The Sector Chief glared, but it was clear the psi was both quite serious and unwilling to wallow in defeat. Fenty gave a ghastly shrug.

"That news bimbo's among those missing," he said with a callous grin. Hershey broke attention just enough to crack a smile. No-one else did, and Anderson could psynse Hershey's reaction was more about bronze-polishing than amusement.

"I knew her," said Betancourt quietly. "We worked together at Channel 9. Always thanked me after a flight, always remembered my name."

Hershey at least had the decency to blush. Fenty didn't; he looked Betancourt scornfully up and down. "And your name _is_, citizen? You _are_?"

"My name's Nick." The pilot's perpetual grin was nowhere to be found, his casual manner replaced by formal insubordination. "As for who I am . . . which will stop you making jokes about a person's death? Citizen, taxpayer, judicial auxiliary, airman?" He stared incuriously at Fenty. "Human?"

The muscles at the points of the Chief's jaw popped and his face worked, but his conscience had been pricked enough that he left it alone. He turned on Anderson. "The Chief Judge is on my ass – what do you want me to tell her?"

Anderson shrugged and seemed to consider. "Have you thought about trying the _truth_?" she suggested eventually. "Or would that be too much of a revolutionary act?"

Fenty actually started to step threateningly toward her, but stopped mid-stride with a nervous glance at Cornelius. The bigger Judge had barely moved a muscle, hadn't even broken parade-ground ease, merely turned his gold-flecked eyes as if asking what Fenty thought he was going to do when he got there. "You know damn-well what I mean, Anderson; terrorism in the CapZone? None of us look good here."

The psi's smile was wide and venomous, beautiful and insinuating. "I rarely do," she explained, "but I don't polish my bronze. Chief Judge is on your ass, huh? That why you're covering it? Or is this preemptive, trying to shovel the spug on top of me and my team? Just think which it is and I'll know."

Fenty narrowed his eyes and glared at her. "Listen to me, you . . ."

"No, you listen to me, you _norm_." Anderson interrupted him before he could make a mistake that would cost him most of his teeth and Cornelius a visit from SJS. "We all know CapZone postings are stepping stones to heavy-bronze; you don't want a red mark on that nice blue record, right? You play all the politics and polish all the bronze you want. But, here's some free advice – you don't wanna play hardball with me; you have absolutely no idea what it's like."

Fenty cast a glance up at Cornelius, who actually smiled. "Wait?" he asked. "You're not speaking your mind because you think I'd . . . ?" He laughed. "Oh, Dok, no – she'll mess you up worse than I ever could; robodocs can fix most of what I break. You two have it out – I'll call the psych-boys." He threw up his hands and took a very deliberate step backwards, a broad grin plastered on his face.

The Sector Chief clenched his jaw and fumed for a few seconds. "Alright," he said tightly, "what have we got? I want this son-of-a-spug caught before he strikes again. How'd he blow up the building?"

"I had a friend of mine in EOD take a look at the news footage," said Brufen. "SOCO sent her the preliminary report. The rockcrete was riddled with holes – she says the collapse was consistent with that kind of weakening."

"Your wasps made those holes, citizen?" asked Fenty.

"Officer Harmon, animal control," he said pleasantly. "And, yes, but they're not _my_ wasps, Judge . . ." Fenty cocked his head and looked at him with disdain, pointedly ignoring his offered hand.

"No?" he asked. "When I asked for aerial spraying of insecticide Chief Judge overruled me, said animal control didn't like it. So far as I'm concerned, that makes 'em _your_ wasps, citizen."

"They're being controlled by the perp," Harmon said brusquely. "If they're anyone's, their _his_. And I ain't happy about that – I want him caught just as bad as you do, Judge; maybe more."

"Are we any closer to doing that?" asked Fenty. "Do we have _anything_?" Anderson shook her head.

"No hits on facial recognition, but we started with sector two, expanded to the CapZone, haven't got to the rest of the city yet," she said. "Forensics have come up empty, interrogation of perps revealed nothing useful."

"What about the RPGs?" asked Betancourt. "I'm guessing they're 'liberated' military hardware – there should be chem-sigs bonded to the explosives. We can trace them that way."

"Already did," said Cornelius. "Army mil-grade; quartermaster at Fort Boast dealt them under the table to Los Santos two years ago. When the gang broke up the orphans must have squirreled away some gear. Trail's cold."

Hershey gestured at Quartermain. "Sir," she said, "the Cadet has particular abilities which might be useful here; she was aware of the initial murder before it happened, and was able to warn me of danger while she was in the bank and I was outside." Fenty stopped his pensive pacing and took a step towards her.

"You're a psyker too?" he asked silverly. Quartermain snapped to attention.

"Yes, Sir," she croaked. "But . . . we prefer 'psi', Sir," she added respectfully.

Fenty looked at her carefully, at her pale-blue fatigues and armor, the sentencing-black lawgiver at her hip, the resin-scab over the scuffed leather on her thumb. Her uniform was street-immaculate and her manner precise, but there were the unmistakable signs of weariness and pain in her otherwise-excellent attention stance. He gestured at the bandage around her throat. "What happened, Cadet?" he asked.

"Emergency tra . . ." She coughed a little, discreetly dabbing at her lips and trying to be subtle about checking her saliva for blood. She swallowed, wincing with the pain. "Emergency tracheotomy, Sir," she rasped.

"I told her she shouldn't talk," Hershey murmured, almost as an aside. Fenty turned to her.

"Didn't want to aggravate the wound?"

Hershey shrugged and actually _smiled_ – it was oily, inside-aeroball, a shared joke at the Cadet's expense. "More to do with her smart mouth," she smirked.

Fenty laughed, nodding indulgently at Hershey, a knowing agreement passing between them. Quartermain didn't visibly react except for a very slight tremble in her lower lip, but that would have been enough for Cornelius to say something if the weight of Anderson's heavy mind hadn't dented the surface of this thoughts telling him _Let it go_. He turned his head towards her, locking eyes with her, and held his agreement and the warning _for now_ in his head until she gave a very slight smile of acknowledgment. "Well, she's going to have to talk now . . . if she has anything to say," Fenty mused. "Cadet?" he asked. "You got anything useful? You know where he's going to strike next?"

Quartermain shook her head. "My ability isn't perfectly reliable, Sir," she explained apologetically. "A lot of it is dreams, visions – I can try to predict what's going to happen, but it's not easy. And with my injuries and the drugs . . ." Her voice trailed off.

Fenty folded his arms. "So you're useless to me?" he asked abruptly.

Quartermain's attention stiffened even more and and her swollen hands clenched into fists by her sides. She glanced questioningly at Cornelius, who gave an exaggerated shrug that unmistakably said _Have at it, Cadet_. "No, Sir, I don't believe I am," she said forcefully. "If mindgames were all I could do I wouldn't be out here getting stung. Our perp communicated his intentions to us – once you strip away the poetry designed to scare citizens, they're obvious. It's extortion – pay up or he starts knocking buildings over. If he hasn't already, he'll be choosing his targets and sending his wasps to munch holes in the 'crete – he needs to have everything in place before he sends his demands."

Fenty braced his legs, squaring up to her. "Why?" he asked.

"'Cause if he doesn't, and someone calls his bluff, he'd be left floundering," explained Quartermain. "Those RPGs are man-portable, easy to conceal, and very quick to fire – but they aren't powerful enough to destroy 'crete that hasn't already been damaged. If one of the companies he tries to blackmail decides to not pay up or even just evacuate the building he'll have to strike immediately. And businesses know that – so they'll pay up."

"Participation in extortion – even if you're paying – is a crime, Cadet," Hershey reminded her.

"Yes, Ma'am," Quartermain acknowledged, "but the mere fact you have a job shows a lot of people have a Dok-make-care attitude to The Law. Businesses will be the targets – they have buildings to threaten, the funds to pay up, maybe even gray-market insurance to cover the losses. He won't threaten private citizens or the Department – they don't have anything worth taking, and we don't negotiate."

"And we would also be able to more-easily trace the demands to their source," mused Fenty. "So what do you _suggest_, Cadet?" he asked. "His plan was already obvious."

"Payoff will be in cash or easily-fenced merchandise – for two reasons," explained Quartermain, forestalling the inevitable question she didn't need her precognition to know was coming. "Firstly, he's a newb – he can't launder digital payments – and his gangers are all orphans; likely no contacts worth a damn. But, more importantly, the businesses can't afford a paper trail – as Judge Hershey said, they don't want to get arrested for paying up."

"So what do you _suggest_?" Fenty asked again.

Quartermain raised a single eyebrow – didn't the Sector Chief _know_, or was this some kind of test? The former was surprising and disappointing, the latter annoying; Cornelius was her assigned Tutor, she didn't care for other Judges wasting precious time giving her pop-quizzes. Regardless, she had a job to do. "Have Street lean on known gray-market insurers," she said, referring to the quasi-legal operations many financial-institutions ran on the side. In Mega City One, where the rule of the gun and the gang was the norm, providing coverage against 'acts of perp' and other crime-related costs which couldn't officially be recorded on the books was a profitably enterprise. J-Dept turned a semi-blind eye to it – not only because such a thing was economically essential in the crime-ravaged city, but also because it was all-but-impossible to stamp out. "Kick some doors, flash the bronze and see what scurries. Turn the heat up – make 'em nervous so they go quiet. That leaves the businesses having to scramble to raise the funds – gray-market insurance is usually well-hidden in the accounts; it takes an audit to find it. But if we take that away they might mess up – Unsung can watch for unusual movements of capital, odd orders, strange deliveries." She shrugged, gingerly touched her throat. "Probably turn up nothing, but it's worth a shot."

The Sector Chief nodded slowly. "That's a big operation," he mused. "I see no reason he'd confine his attentions to this sector, or even the CapZone. He could strike anywhere – my Judges are already stretched . . ."

"Agreed," said Anderson. "I'll talk to Zone Commanders, have them pass the orders to their Sector Chiefs. Do what you can, Fenty – but if we want pressure on the gray-market I might need to have sector one Judges adjudicate here. You okay with that?"

Fenty stuffed his hands in his pockets and stalked to sit behind his desk; CapZone SectComms didn't like their toes being trodden on, but especially disliked it when one of the other three hauled their munce off the radlava. In the cut-throat race to get to the top, CapZone sector chiefs were always eager to step in to 'help' . . . usually themselves. "Guess I'll have to be," he said bitterly. "Hershey, you stick close with PsiDiv, keep me in the loop. I'll bring the Chief Judge up to speed. You need a desk to make calls, Anderson?" She shook her head.

"_Manta_'s on the roof," she said. "I've got direct lines to ZeeComms there." She clicked her heels together in unnecessary polite attention. "Thank you, Sector Chief – you'll see Unsung's reports as soon as I do." She gathered her team and Hershey up by eye and led the way out of the office.

"You go up to _Manta_," Cornelius said as soon as they were outside, "I want to have a short word with Judge Hershey. We'll be up in a minute." Anderson glanced at him and then nodded, gently directing Quartermain away with a hand on her shoulder. As soon as they were out of earshot, Hershey turned to face Cornelius.

"I'm sorry about my chief," she began. "Especially the way he treated the psis – and there was no excuse for his crack about Betancourt's friend, but . . ."

"But?" Cornelius voice was the _krak!_ of a deploying daystick. "You laughed at it, Hershey – ain't no backing off from that. Anyway, I don't give a damn about Fenty – he's an ass, but he's just trying to shield his sector from blowback. That I understand. What I don't understand – or like – is you throwing Jackie on the resyk belt, making fun of her. You told me you shoulda listened to that smart mouth – why the change of heart? Don't answer," he snapped as she started to speak. "I can guess. You wanna be Chief Judge?" He shook his head. "If you're going to get there like that, I'm not looking forward to it."

Hershey hung her head – he was right, of course, yet . . . "Cornelius, I'm sorry, but . . ."

"Don't apologize to me, apologize to her," he said sharply, "and quit saying 'but'. But, _what_, Hershey? Really? You want the heavy-bronze so much you'll bad-mouth a _Cadet_ to make sure you look good and keep your chief sweet?" He shook his head. "There's nothing you can say that'll make that make sense to me," he said decisively.

Something snapped inside her. "You don't _get_ it!" she hissed. She glanced around, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him into a little niche between a 'caf machine and the wall. "I'm Street, okay? Black-and-bronze to the bone – it's all I _ever_ wanted to be. But CJ noticed me, took an interest in my career. She moved me from 41, partnered me with Dredd for a year, and transferred me to the CapZone just before your Assessment. She's _grooming_ me, okay? For sector command, or something more. You think I _like_ that?" she asked in a fierce whisper. "We all know you can bronze-polish your way up the ranks – drokk, what do you think they say about _you_? About Anderson? It might be different if you looked like Slocum, but . . ." Her voice trailed off. "Well," she sniffed, "you've both got eyes. And mirrors."

Slowly, Cornelius nodded – he'd heard rumors, of course, and even he couldn't be entirely sure they weren't at least partially true; unbidden, the scent of clean sweat and sandalwood rose from his memories and he shook his head to clear it. He locked eyes with Hershey. "Nice try," he told her, "but no dice – we were talking about _you_. You're a natural for heavy-bronze, and you know it. Do I think you _like_ it? Sure you do – like I said, you're a natural; it's what you are. Just remember where you came from, is all."

Hershey sighed – he still didn't understand. "Alright," he admitted. "This isn't an excuse – I was wrong, I shouldn't have said that; I'll apologize to her. But . . . I've got to play the game, Cornelius," she explained. "You don't, okay? Because – and let's get down to the bronze here – Anderson took a shine to you. I'm not saying you don't deserve it or that you can't do the job – you can, probably better than anyone in the city. If there is _anyone_ who can pick the right person for a job, it's Cassandra Anderson. Although," she added, "the fact you were Novak's protege didn't hurt either . . ."

"Again," Cornelius reminded her, his teeth lightly grit, "we were talking about _you_."

Hershey rolled her eyes, more at herself and the deflection that she didn't seem able to turn off. "I've got to play the game, okay? _That's_ what I don't like – spug like that. But I've gotta do it; because if I don't, others will advance past me – Fenty will promote someone _else_ to shift chief, someone who doesn't _care_, who isn't really Street, not deep down where it counts. Someone who just polishes the bronze rather than . . ." She sighed. "Well, you know."

"Flashes it."

She shook her head, looking down at her feet. "That's your phrase," she said in a very small voice. "I don't feel right using it, not after what I did in there."

Cornelius caught her chin in one massive hand and lifted her face to his. "Hey," he said, "what did you tell me this morning? Put this behind you, learn from it, move on. Okay?" The strength in his fingers was incredible but his touch gentle, the pressure on her neck inexorable but delicate. To her stunned surprise, the unaccustomed sense of weakness didn't disgust her – it _warmed_ her, reminding her of his _otherness_ in the enclosed space. Despite herself, her heart fluttered – drokk the man! Didn't he _realize?_ He didn't – his expression was too innocent, too professional, too unaware, for it to be deliberate. Her lips trembled and she felt her eyes mist, the bronze melting off her in the heat of his close presence. She'd never noticed before how his eyes weren't just brown – they were gold-flecked chocolate, large, compassionate and fierce. Unable to look away from them she nodded. He offered his hand and she managed to grasp it with trembling fingers, linking their wrists. "Flash the bronze," he said.

She clung to the cold professionalism of the phrase like a lifeline. "Flash the bronze," she agreed, thankful her voice sounded firm and still contralto. She intended to pull him down to her, but instead she found herself lifting herself on her tiptoes to clink her eagle against his. She set herself down – and then jumped back with a cry. "Judge Anderson! I was . . . that is . . ." Flustered, she ran a hand through her hair. "We were just talking," she said unnecessarily.

Anderson's face was neutral as she looked back and forth between the two of them. "Tucked behind the vending machine?" she asked incuriously. She faced Cornelius. "She's hot, John," she said.

"What?" exclaimed Hershey. "What did you say? I'm not – that is, I wasn't . . . I wouldn't, not with your . . . I mean, with Judge . . . with anyone! At all!"

Anderson looked at her carefully, her eyes glassy for a second. She suppressed a knowing smile so fast only she noticed it. "You okay, Babs?" she asked seriously. She didn't wait for an answer. "_Manta_'s hot, John – we've got a lead."

To Hershey's annoyance – and even, she noted with yet-more annoyance, _disappointment_ – Cornelius was utterly unaffected, calm as a stone. She focused on that, fiercely reminding herself there was nothing here, that he didn't feel anything, that this was simply the base, basic biological desire a woman at the peak of her fertility inevitably felt towards a tall, dark, handsome, broad-shouldered, muscular paragon of masculinity with eyes like . . .

_Drokk it all to spug._

"Already?" asked Cornelius. Anderson nodded.

"Got to love Unsung," she said.

_o_

_o_

_o_

_This scene was the original opening to the second scene of chapter six, in the Chief Judge's office. It is very similar to the finished scene, but the intensity level is way up here. Much of what Anderson is thinking and feeling would be entirely natural – but she would have learned to suppress it and get a handle on it, as well as knowing you didn't say such things to the Chief Judge. It is a degree of intensity problem, rather than a problem with the intensity itself. This kind of scene would work better when the spug really hits the fan, rather than something relatively small like a city-wide riot._

"Tell me you have some good news."

Anderson looked over at Cornelius, who shrugged. "John and I only lie to each other, Chief Judge," she said with a shrug of her own.

The Chief Judge stared fixedly at Anderson for a second, and then abruptly stood and marched from behind her desk. "You think this is funny, Division Chief?" she asked acidly.

"No, Ma'am," Anderson assured her. "That's why I'm making the joke – nervous habit, I'm afraid."

The Chief Judge stepped up, stopping in front of her, squaring up to the psi. "Do you know what's happening out there, Judge Anderson?" she asked. "Just how bad it is, while you make your 'joke'?"

Standing next to his commander, Cornelius felt his friend tense and her sudden broadcast of pain dent the surface of his mind. "Cassie . . ." he said gently. He turned to the Chief Judge. "I am certain, Ma'am, that Judge Anderson . . ."

"She can speak for herself, Cornelius." Goodman's voice was the crack of a whip. "Unless you have jokes to make as well?" Cornelius stiffened into attention and shook his head. "Well, Judge Anderson?" the Chief Judge asked. "Do you know what's going on out there? The riots, and the robberies? What happened in Zucchini Park? The number of dead Judges I have? Are you aware of just how many casualties there were in the building collapses?"

Anderson lifted her head, cocked it curiously at the Chief Judge. "How . . . _many_ . . . casualties, Ma'am?" she asked. "Yes, I am – but that's just a statistic; that's easy to be aware of. But being aware of the casualties themselves? There's no way you can be – none of you." She looked blankly around the room, her butcher-blue eyes blurred with a film of saltwater. "But me? Oh, yes – I'm 'aware' of the casualties in the building collapses. And the people still trapped in the ruins – suffocating, bleeding out, dying of thirst. And the Judges, dying alone and begging for backup. And the scared children, trying to comfort parents who long ago gave up hope. And the people who lost loved ones and are so angry they can't think and so sad the tears won't come any more. I could go on, Ma'am – but I won't. Because it would drive you mad." Tears were streaming down her cheeks and she did nothing to wipe them away. She stretched out a hand, reaching for but not touching Goodman's temple. "You wanna taste, Ma'am?" she asked. She shook her head and lowered her hand. "No, that's not an option – you're not strong enough. No, that isn't right – you just don't deserve it. Neither do I, of course, but . . ." She turned to Cornelius and smiled a watery smile, her hand hovering in the negative space between them. "Life isn't fair – that's why we have jobs."

The Chief Judge shuddered and had the decency to at least look embarrassed beneath her discomfort and disgust at the inappropriate insubordination. "Anderson, I . . ."

She plowed over her. "But, yes; believe me, Ma'am – I know what's going on out there. I'm maybe the only Judge who really does. And it ain't easy, you know?" Her voice sharpened just a fraction. "Because of the three people who could _maybe_ understand one has a throat full of broken glass and a liver still screaming from trying process venom, one would never admit he could and is stoically ignoring the pain of a broken arm and the knowledge of what he had to do in Zucchini Park, and one you just told to shut up rather than help me." Without looking, Cornelius broke attention and took her hand, his gigantic fingers enfolding hers. Hershey watched her whole body tremble, her head shuddering as she hung it, and wondered just how she could stay standing – everything in her had to be screaming to just melt into his arms.

But Anderson was, despite the fact she had a main line directly into the chaos, horror and destruction consuming the city, made of sterner stuff than Hershey feared she was. She lifted her head and very deliberately extricated her hand, wiping away her tears without a hint of embarrassment. The Chief Judge watched her carefully, eyes narrowed as she measured the connection between the two of them. "Yeah, I know what's happening, and – trust me – it's not funny, even if it is happening to someone else. We screwed up," she admitted. "We didn't stop him at the bank, and people died. We didn't stop him in Boston, and people died. You have to _deal_ with that, but we have to _live_ with it. We are _not_ going oh-for-three, Ma'am."

Delicately, nervously, Quartermain touched her hand. Anderson looked down at her – the Cadet had strict orders from the medics to not speak, and even if she'd had the strength to defy them the pain clouding her emerald eyes to hazel made it impossible for her even to whisper. Her notebook and pen were clipped to her belt, but she had other ways of communicating with her fellow psi. "No, Jackie," Anderson said firmly, "I won't have that – we agreed; you're not responsible for what you can't control."

"Then neither are you." Goodman's tone was final. "I apologize, Judge Anderson – I forget sometimes that . . ." Her voice trailed off.

Anderson smiled a wry little grin. "With my strength comes weakness?" she suggested. The Chief Judge shook her head.

"You are who you are – and that I knew I was taking a risk ignoring that three percent." She smiled herself. "You haven't let me down so far – I see no reason why you will today. I want good news because it's a mess out there, and I'm asking you because I think you can give me it. What have you got?"

"Precious little," admitted Anderson. "Facial recognition came back a dud – no hits, throughout the city and the last five years of immigration."

"We've sent the image to MC2 and TexCit judiciaries, Ma'am," Hershey interjected, "but we're not optimistic; I think he's off the grid. But there might be an explanation."

_o_

_o_

_o_

_So, those are the deleted scenes – nothing which would have really changed the direction of the story, but a different focus on emotions and "feels", I guess. This story has been, throughout, about family and friendships, about relationships between men and women, feminine vulnerability and masculine strength and these scenes addressed that – but in a very direct, intense way. I wanted to make it more subtle._

_Any comments welcome!_


End file.
